


Spira, Spera

by LightningInABottle



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunchback of Notre Dame (1996) Fusion, Amnesia, Angel/Demon Relationship, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bigotry & Prejudice, Disabled Character, F/F, F/M, Fallen Angels, Falling In Love, Fate & Destiny, Gabriel Being an Asshole (Good Omens), Guardian Angels, Hurt/Comfort, Inspired by Notre-Dame de Paris | The Hunchback of Notre Dame, M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Religion, Religious Conflict, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Temptation, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, Unrequited Lust, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-11-06
Packaged: 2020-07-12 16:28:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 70,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19949311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LightningInABottle/pseuds/LightningInABottle
Summary: I breathe, I hopeThe paths of two angels and a demon collide in front of the careful eyes of the cathedral. One, flightless and isolated, a shell of his former self who longs for Earth. The other, so cruelly set in his purity that anything else is unbearable. And the demon, on a mission that could change everything about the nature of Heaven itself.All one can do is breathe. The other can only hope.





	1. Prologus

**Author's Note:**

> A Hunchback of Notre-Dame AU? More likely than you think.

Say what you’d like about Heaven, but the place was never quiet.

Sure, there were bouts of stillness hidden between celestial harmonies and the swish of white feathers, like bits of sky between clouds. Maybe the singing would give way into a hollow echo. Maybe the millions of angels working on something or other would slow in their daily bustle and then stop, unable to remember what they were doing or where they were going. But even then, it was never completely silent.

That was the first thing wrong. The second was that, at a time that would qualify as night on Earth, a Principality was using his flaming sword to guide the way through a cathedral. Orange shadows flickered over the walls of the tower as he ascended, five silhouettes trailing behind him. He was using his power in so many ways, all of them various degrees of forbidden. To keep prying eyes away from the group behind him, to allow said group to step foot on consecrated ground.

And most importantly, to keep Heaven absolutely quiet. Once they were in, there was nothing that could be done. So the Principality forged on, climbing the stairs built far higher than the cathedral appeared on the outside. Fear and anxiety did not plague his heart; there was not a hint of uncertainty in his face. An Angel was meant to be a being of pure love, and what purer love than that for the Fallen?

If only everyone else could understand that as well. 

With tangible relief, they reached the top of the bell tower, exposed to the outside. The Principality’s wings extended out in their full glory, almost silver in the starlight. It was a sight to behold: this holy creature risking everything for the five demons hidden by this shadow. He allowed himself a breath of air, knowing that it would be the last he would take for a while. Heaven, being exceedingly high, was not suited for mortal vessels.

“What now?” hissed one of the demons, looking up. 

The Principality shushed him with a look, keeping his voice low when he spoke. “Now, say your prayers, and mean them. Under the Sacrament of Repentance, your sins will be forgiven seventy times over seventy, and you will Ascend.” He left the  _ hopefully  _ part unsaid.

He had spent so much time considering this, and it had to work. There was no way the trip to Hell was one-way, especially after the Crucifixion, which forgave even humanity of their transgressions. Could the same not apply to demons? The Almighty was oddly silent on the matter, but the other angels had made up their minds. They held nothing but contempt for the Fallen, that was perfectly clear.

So clear, in fact, that he knew he had to do this alone. No matter the cost. Inhaling deeply, he began to pray. 

“O, our Father in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Hearken to my supplication, cast Your eyes down upon me, Your servant, and those I have brought with me to seek Your ever-merciful forgiveness. Overlook their trespasses, just as You overlook those of mortals. See their hearts and know they are truly repentant. Allow them a place at Your side in Heaven, as angelic as they were at the beginning of things. I, the Principality Aziraphale, vouch for them. Amen.” 

Aziraphale turned to the demons, who knelt on the cathedral roof, wings folded behind them in a perfect picture of submission. He smiled, eyes glistening with the early shine of tears. Then, he called them to a second staircase. This one not made of stone, but of Light, extending higher and higher. There was no need to speak, so he simply left his words hovering in the air that surrounded them.

They began their climb. 

An unknown time later—it was all rather relative up above—they stood at the top of the stairs, where Light became Even More Light and stars blended together to form a floor and a gate. This gate, unlike rumors would have it, was not pearly nor particularly special. Just a simple barred gate that happened to be white. They stumbled towards it, unable to believe what they were seeing, after so long.

Aziraphale cast a glance behind him, seeing the wings of the demons begin to smoke, eyes going wide as they took in all the Glory they were isolated from for thousands of years. A few had begun to weep openly. It wasn’t long now, before five more angels would join the Host. Joy bloomed in his chest. The others would see once it was all said and done. They had to.

Aziraphale, now grinning, raised his flaming sword to the gate. It swung open. He beckoned the first demon forward. Two primaries burst into flame, black being singled away until the feathers shone pale.  _ It was working, thank God, it was working.  _

Now, since Heaven was quiet, thanks to his intensive miracles, Aziraphale did not hear the Archangel approach until it was too late. He did not hear the Archangel step forward, out of the gates. He did not hear the Archangel’s sound of disgusted disbelief. And he most certainly did not hear the Archangel raise his sword. Not until it was far too late.

What Aziraphale did hear, however, was the screaming. The flaming blade cut through the demon’s very soul, until flesh folded on spirit and spirit folded on nothing. 

And then it stopped. 

Everything went silent. 

Only to start again, as Aziraphale’s powers fractured and broke, and Heaven erupted into sound. The demons had begun to flee, three to the stairs, one to the gates. From their widened mouths could be heard the name:  _ Gabriel, it’s Gabriel, run it’s Gabriel.  _ Like a twisted chant, a hymn long since distorted. One at a time, each was cut down, falling under the cut of blessed metal. Aziraphale stood, completely paralyzed with horror, as the beings he put everything into saving were slaughtered in cold blood.

If he wasn’t so afraid, he might’ve considered Falling right then and there—because what sort of God could see this happen and keep His silence? 

But as the fourth was obliterated, a terrible screech wrung from his lips, Aziraphale realized he could still save one. The demon that had spoken up, the one that had run for the gates. There was still a chance. Hopelessly optimistic, maybe, but a chance. 

Aziraphale’s wings flapped frantically as he took flight, an action that did not go unnoticed. The three pursued each other, the demon speeding for the promise of Salvation, pursued by a Savior and a Destroyer.

The most cynical say that evil always triumphs over good. The cynical are, in this case, correct. 

Aziraphale didn’t stand a chance. When Gabriel swung his sword, he made a split-second decision and raised his own. The clash shielded the demon, sparks throwing themselves in every direction. A cold sneer carved itself on Gabriel’s face and he broke away, only to strike again. He was near impossible to fend off, but Aziraphale put every ounce of power that he could into it.

If nobody else, he had to redeem this one. 

“ _ Run! _ ” he yelled at the demon, who scrambled away, only to be pursued by the dueling angels.

The swordfight lasted barely a minute, ending with Aziraphale being disarmed, utterly defenseless and defeated. Gabriel, now holding two weapons, turned and pointed one at the demon, ready to land a final killing blow. And he would have, if not for Aziraphale throwing himself in front of the sword’s point. It sunk neatly in his chest with a thick sound and a gurgle.

Not wasting a second, he summoned the last of his strength to shove the demon down the staircase. His eyes were sunlight-yellow, and just as bright as he fell for a second time. 

Those eyes were the last thing he saw before darkness overtook him. 

Probably for the best he didn't see the expression of absolute victory on Gabriel’s face. Nothing would've kept him from casting himself down as well.

* * *

“What are we to do now?” Michael stared, dumbfounded, at the unconscious body before them. “I mean, there isn't exactly a precedent for this sort of thing.” They glanced at the others around them, all of which were focused on the exact same thing. 

Principality Aziraphale, traitor. 

Gabriel shrugged. “If you ask me, he should Fall. Give Lucifer a replacement in employees after the five I dispatched.” Gabriel, being unusually prideful for someone of his creation, neglected to inform the others that only four had been taken care of. The other one was...well, he wasn't  _ destroyed,  _ per se. 

“His intentions are pure,” insisted Raphael, eyebrows furrowing. He may have been a pacifist—side effect of too much time on Earth—but he wasn't stupid. “And you know how tetchy God gets when the holy energy doesn't balance out. No, falling simply isn't an option for this one.”

“But shouldn't there be  _ some  _ form of punishment?” Uriel curled her lip at the newly healed scar on Aziraphale’s chest. Raphael had insisted—bullied, really. 

“What would you suggest?” said Michael. 

“We can't send him down to Earth. Too much risk of further rebellion.” Uriel replied. 

“Oh, so keep him trapped up here? That's not going to go down well at all. He's always been...strong-minded, to say the least.” Raphael started chewing his lip.

“Then what the Hell are we supposed to do?” Michael sounded appalled, but then again, she often did. Came with the territory of being General. 

“I don't know. This is way above our pay-grade.” Uriel glanced up. Even higher up. “Did you ask…?”

“The Metatron has been unusually silent,” sighed Michael. 

“Then what—”

“If he believed he had to stay here to preserve his status, he would.” Gabriel suddenly spoke, jolting everyone to attention. “I say we make him flightless, can't have him going back and forth. Throw in a few black feathers, saddle him under someone else’s wing, so to speak. Make him believe he's close to being evil, to falling.” 

It was a cruel punishment, but one that shocked nobody.

“And who,” drawled Uriel. “Would be willing to volunteer for such a position?” 

All eyes turned to Gabriel, who immediately groaned. “No. No way. He hates my guts. I'd get ripped apart before I could do anything.” Also, he wasn't necessarily in the business of having others rely on him. Sure, kids were nice to announce and all, but anybody who wasn't immediately useful to him was of no importance. 

“Wipe his memory,” whispered Raphael. “If he can't remember, he can't make the same mistake again.” Then, he turned and flew away, thousands of eyes blinking. He had a tendency to do that, say some vague wisdom and then vanish, leaving everyone else in the remnants of his voice. 

Uriel took to the skies next, with a roll of her eyes that said:  _ not my problem.  _ Gabriel and Michael were left staring at each other.

“No,” said Gabriel before she could.

“But—”

“I said,  _ no.” _

“Have you considered the consequences of smiting five? Aziraphale was by far the most rebellious, but if word gets out, he won’t be the last.” Michael sighed. “Take him, keep him under control, and make sure he won’t recall a thing. You’ll thank me in the end.” Then, she vanished also, with a sound like a clap of thunder. 

Gabriel looked at Aziraphale, lying prone, wings extended out. For a moment, he almost felt pity. 

Then, he brought his hands to rest on the feathers and smiled. Hollow bones curved, then broke, an awful screech coming from them. It was worse than any sound from Earth. The crunching continued, as the wings folded in on themselves, curling up hunched behind Aziraphale. Darkness crept up the primaries, turning them all mottled. There would be no healing this. Gabriel may as well have had him clipped. 

Well, it was done now. There was only one thing left to say.

“ _ Wake _ .”

Principality Aziraphale opened his eyes. Deformed, aberrant, flightless.

And he did not remember.


	2. Principio

Below the clouds, the city shone with the eagerness of an upcoming festival. The name and location of this city have long since been erased from human history, but all anybody needs to know is that this place was extraordinarily blessed. So blessed, in fact, that it was commonplace for angels to come down during the celebrations and mingle. 

Held in higher regard than even the governor, they could make or break the life of a human. In such a faithful town, they were honored like kings, just like how demons and witches were executed. That was, perhaps, the most frustrating part for Aziraphale, who had never so much as set foot on Earth. He had spent his entire life watching others come and go. 

Once, he asked Gabriel why he couldn't leave as well, just for a bit, and got a cruel jab at his wings for his trouble.  _ ‘You think you can go anywhere with those?’  _ the Archangel had said, laughing.  _ ‘You'd be lucky to get halfway down before they snap.’  _

Aziraphale didn't ask again. It was what set him apart from everyone else, also the source of his greatest humiliation. In a realm where God made no mistakes, an angel with useless, spotted wings was...well, he was a disgrace. Teetering right on the edge of a plunge into a pool of boiling sulfur. After all, why would his wings be partly black as they were?

And he couldn’t even hide them away. No, the symbol of his shame had to stay with him, bared for all to see. So he tended to stay on the very outskirts, near the place where the cathedral melted into Light. 

It was there that he spoke to the Guardian angels, those who had not even a solid form during their time with humans. Occasionally, one would have a soul with them, so pure that they could ascend right away. Aziraphale watched carefully for them, occasionally being treated to bits of food they brought up. He had become rather partial to a fruit called  _ pear,  _ although he’d never admit it to Gabriel for fear of ridicule.

Gluttony was a sin, after all, and God knew Aziraphale had committed for too many. Even if he didn’t remember. 

With the tradition of the city, the Jeweled Parade meant that nobody could be buried. A day of revelry for the common folk and nobility alike had no room for the depressing scene of a funeral. So when the Guardians trickled in, one by one, hanging up their jobs for the day, Aziraphale watched with eager eyes, drinking in each Earthly aspect, from the style of their hair to the cut of their clothes.

Such an obsession would, of course, be considered immoral. Aziraphale shivered. Was that why he couldn’t fly, so his greed for civilization wouldn’t taint him further?

“Hey!” Saniel, an angel with long black hair tied back by a white ribbon beckoned Aziraphale over. She smiled at him, halo shining. “I’ll not be going down for a bit, while the Parade is on, but I have news. And a gift.” She pressed a lump wrapped in thin paper into his hands. He looked down on it, befuddled. “It’s called cake. Human desert, like bread but lighter and sweeter. Some kind of cream on it, too.”

Aziraphale's spirits lifted immediately. Saniel always brought the best gifts as of late, since her assignment was to watch over a pregnant baker whose husband had left her. “Thank you, dear girl. Now what’s this news?” 

Before Saniel could speak, another Guardian appeared from the clouds. Neriah, bearing a grin and a small satchel. “Do  _ not  _ tell me you’re starting the story without me.” She handed the bag off to Aziraphale with a quick nod, and when he took it, he heard the telltale rustle of parchment. Books and food, his two greatest weaknesses. Both human, both used for sin. He shook off the thought. 

“Why all the fuss? Surely not a simple assignment?” Aziraphale felt a smile tug at his lips when both the angels piped up. That was the thing about Guardians, they were so much more  _ alive  _ than the others, probably from their time on Earth. He oftentimes found himself jealous of their lower rank, their ability to interact. Maybe then he could at least see what the bakeries and libraries looked like for himself instead of through secret snippets. 

“So,” spoke Saniel, resting a hand on Neriah’s shoulder. “We were in the city, and you know, nobody’s supposed to see us in the city, so we hid our wings.”

“No, _ no,  _ that’s  _ not  _ how it happened.” Neria cast an apologetic glance at Aziraphale. “You see, we were in one of those pavilions, drinking a bit of wine when…”

“ _ After  _ we hid our wings. The man would never have spoken up if he knew what we were.” The words were all coming out in a rush, blending together in an effort to convey the story sooner.

Neriah was blushing a bit now, an extremely uncommon action for someone so usually confident. “So then this man comes up and he—”

“—He  _ propositions  _ us,” whispered Saniel, eyes going wide. Aziraphale understood now, what kind of pavilion they had stumbled into. He nodded and  _ ah _ -ed, not particularly surprised. Gabriel would be disgusted, he always was, at the vulgarity of even a holy city. “So I, well...I, you see—”

“ _ She kissed me,”  _ blurted Neriah, now fully scarlet. Now that was a shocker. 

Aziraphale made a wheezing sort of sound, and kept wheezing until Saniel had to ask if she was alright. Her eyes flickered to his wings, unnaturally twisted behind him. He shook her off, trying to find words. 

“You did  _ what _ ?”

“The mashing of the faces,” Saniel made a vague gesture with her hands. “To show affection.” 

“I know what it is,” Aziraphale laughed. He wasn’t completely daft, he had books, after all. “How was it?”

“Nice,” they said simultaneously, only to turn to each other and giggle. 

“Very nice,” admitted Saniel.

Neriah raised an eyebrow. “Nice enough to do again?”

“Not here, obviously. We aren’t supposed to be doing that sort of thing at all. But the next time we’re on Earth…” she trailed off. Aziraphale watched the exchange with equal parts amusement and envy. 

Saniel gave him a reassuring smile. “Don’t worry, Aziraphale, you’ll probably get to at some point.”

Aziraphale tried to stammer how that  _ wasn’t what he meant at all, not one bit, he just wanted to see Earth, really,  _ but instead simply sighed. “Who would I even kiss? It’s not like anyone is lining up.” Aziraphale barely had friends as it was, and other angels looked down on him with vague disdain anytime he tried to approach. Gabriel was the only Archangel who could even stand to speak to him, the others quickly vanishing with an unreadable look on their faces.

“ _ Well… _ ” Neriah tilted her head down. “The festival  _ is  _ still on, and I believe it’s not uncommon for those like us to pop in for a quick visit. And you’d get to finally see the library I have put aside for you.”

Ah, that. Every book Aziraphale read, he gave back for Neriah to hide away in the cathedral—no material possessions in Heaven and all. Over the years, he had gotten a rather expansive collection, even though he’d never seen it himself. Something fluttered through his heart. Maybe his friends found kissing entertaining enough, but he would rather see the winding, cobblestone streets and carved musical instruments and tightly-bound scrolls. Another song of longing hit him, for a place he’d never even witnessed up close. 

“I can’t go. I wouldn’t be able to fly down or get back.” He paused, trying to extend his wings. Nothing happened, except a flash of pain. “And Gabriel wouldn’t let me.”

“Gabriel’s just angry that he has to go every year, sign of goodwill and all.” 

“And we can take you,” added Saniel. “Two of us should be able to handle a Principality just fine.” 

Aziraphale was so vastly unprepared for this moment that all he could muster up was an uneven stutter. “Well, yes, but—” His eyes went wide, body going completely still when he sensed a presence. “ _ Go.”  _

Saniel and Neriah linked hands and vanished, Aziraphale let out a sigh of relief. Then, he remembered he still had the cake and the satchel, and managed to feel even worse. But it was too late now, Gabriel was already standing behind him. A hand settled on his shoulder, just enough to jar. 

“Aziraphale, Aziraphale,” Gabriel tutted, walking around to face him. “What's this?” His gaze fell to what Aziraphale was holding, and he plucked the bag from his hands with a frown. “Hm. You know you aren’t supposed to, right? All those  _ ideas,  _ well, you can’t have them messing with your head.” The book burst into flame, burning into ashes that drifted away in a nonexistent wind. 

Aziraphale stared at the ground. “I’m sorry, I was just—”

Gabriel’s face softened in mercy, he patted Aziraphale’s back. “Come. You can eat whatever you’ve got on the way.” He walked off, Aziraphale having to move faster than usual to keep up. At least he didn’t fly like the others, not around Aziraphale. They paced the edges of Heaven, coming to where the gates stood, tall and proud. Beyond them was a staircase.

“Have you been reviewing your prayers?”

Aziraphale unwrapped the paper, inhaling the scent as subtly as he could. “Yes.” 

“Blessing souls?”

Aziraphale picked off a little bit of the cake and pressed it to his mouth. Saniel was right; the sweetness all but melted on his tongue. “Yes,” he managed to say.

“And there have been no complications?”

He wasn’t particularly sure what complications there could be, really, but he shook his head nonetheless. Gabriel paused at the gates, and they swung open before him. 

Casting a glance at Aziraphale, he furrowed his eyebrows. “Why do you consume  _ that _ ?”

“It’s...well, it’s pleasant.” Aziraphale hated how he felt around Gabriel, like his skin was trying to reverse in on itself, if only to make him disappear.

“Pleasant?” Gabriel turned back to the stairs. “Nevermind, look.” He pointed to where the cathedral first started to show, and even further below, where humans were starting to set up caravans and don their costumes, little more than colorful specks from up above. Aziraphale felt that terrible longing again, so sharp and sudden it took his breath away. 

He forced himself to look away. “It’s the Jeweled Parade, what about it?” 

“You’ve been tempted, haven’t you?” said Gabriel, deceptively gentle. “To attend?”

Aziraphale froze, blood running cold as the weight of the accusation settled around him. How could Gabriel know? That was stupid, he was an Archangel, he knew everything. A sick sort of feeling built up in Aziraphale’s throat—suddenly he wasn’t hungry anymore. “I...I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he choked out.

“Lying isn’t very holy, Aziraphale.” Gabriel sighed, his exasperation somehow worse than outright anger. “Do you know why I brought you here?”

“No.” Aziraphale stared at his feet. Logically, he knew he hadn’t done anything wrong. But that didn’t stop him from trying to make himself as nonexistent as possible. 

“Look, Earth is, it’s a den of sin. Even this city, favored by Heaven, is wicked beyond belief. You have to trust me.” Gabriel pinched the bridge of his nose. “You think those other angels care about you? If you Fell, they wouldn’t care. Only I do.”

Aziraphale, despite everything, found that hard to believe. Saniel and Neriah were so much kinder than anyone else he’d met, even if they endorsed his impulses. 

Gabriel continued on. “I’m just looking out for you, like I always have, keeping you from all those pesky temptations. Look at your wings.” He tugged on one of Aziraphale’s feathers, and a shuddering twinge of pain overtook him at it was pulled out. Gabriel held it up, showing the midnight black sheen with an expression exaggerated pity. “You have to stay up here, don’t you see? You’re corrupted enough already.”

Under the focus of an expectant gaze, Aziraphale could do nothing but repeat what he had been told for so long. “I am corrupted.”

“...An abomination...” Gabriel tilted Aziraphale’s head up so he was forced to look up at him. The feather fluttered to the ground. 

“An abomination.”

“The world will not hesitate to drag you to Hell. I’m your only defender here, against the iniquity of humans.” He gestured to the city. “Out there they’ll see you as half-formed. Or worse, a demon. You’ve seen what they do to demons, don’t you?”

Aziraphale had seen burnings at the stake, people floundering in vats of holy water. “I do. Thank you, Gabriel. I’m exceedingly grateful.” His voice sounded so unnaturally hollow, an echo of himself. 

Gabriel smiled, his eyes not quite echoing the sentiment. “There you go.” He guided Aziraphale back in Heaven’s borders, gate closing with a final  _ thud.  _ “Stay up here, and everything will be just fine. Stay up here and you’ll remain an angel.” He took the remaining cake from Aziraphale’s hand, vanishing it, not unlike what Aziraphale currently wanted to do to himself.

As soon as Gabriel flew off, Aziraphale sank to his knees, threading his fingers around the bars of the gate. “Would it be such a sin…?” he whispered, barely more than a breath on his lips. 

He’d spent his entire existence simply watching, seeing people live their wonderful, short lives on Earth, seeing them brought up by the Guardians. When he was alone, he constantly wondered what it would be like to see the city not from the perspective of a bird high above, but as one of their own. Just one day would be enough, really, to be part of the Parade. 

Gabriel would never have to know, really. And Aziraphale would give anything to be amongst the humans he guarded. He’d be content with just a few hours, basking in the sun, breathing in the vitality that poured from the crowd. Just a day, could that be so bad?

In Heaven, words held an exceedingly large amount of power. Some had even Fallen simply from their questioning. So when Aziraphale raised his head and murmured  _ Saniel,  _ she appeared immediately. He stood, turning to face her.

“I want to go.”

The die was cast.

* * *

The Captain of the Guard has been given a rather unfortunate name, all things considered. Like any sensible man, he avoided the  _ eye of newt  _ jibes by instead making his men refer to him as Captain Pulsifer. However, when his first name had gotten out on the battlefront, there was no shortage of jokes directed at him concerning his involvement with the occult. So when he received his promotion, he vowed to keep no secrets. 

After arriving in the city as the noonday sun peaked, he spared no time seeking out the nearest man with a spear and sword. He didn’t pause to look in red-bricked shops and shaded alleyways, but if he had, he would’ve noticed them all empty. Or at the very least, full of families packing their tents, costumes, and caravans and traveling to the central plaza. Leading his horse by the girdle, he paused in front of an armor-clad figure. 

“Newton Pulsifer, newly appointed Captain, reporting for duty. Could you tell me where to find the judge?” 

The man regarded Newt with a look of barely-contained disbelief. Newt tried not to be insulted; it was the usual reaction to his wiry frame and spectacles that just barely perched on his nose. Eventually, he leaned in and spoke.

“Look, sir, I quite frankly have no idea who you are. And with the festival and such, you’d be better off finding whoever you’re looking for in the morning.”

The second guard looked over at them. “And it not like the judge is any help. You’d be better off talking to an angel,” he muttered, scanning the street. 

Newt blanched. Maybe he had misheard. “Pardon...you said  _ angel _ ?”

The two guards looked him over a second time. “Yes,” the first said, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. Where’d ya come from, a cave?”

Newt narrowed his eyes. First impressions he tended to dismiss, but outright insolence was virtually unheard of. “The war.” 

Maybe there was something in his tone, sharp and unyielding, that gave them pause. But they only spared him a shocked look before their attention was abruptly directed elsewhere. 

A few small buildings down, a woman stood on a wooden platform, surrounded by a small crowd of people that  _ oohed  _ and  _ aahed  _ in wonder. Her dark hair, instead of being tied back, blew freely in the wind, just like her green skirt the color of forest moss. With a grin, she took what looked like a pouch of herbs, passing her hand over it. When it was revealed once more, it was smoldering. Her audience cheered, and the fragrance could be detected even from where Newt was standing.

Not losing her broad smile, the woman hung the pouch on a bakery shop sign above her, thin tendrils of smoke following. She crouched down to help a little girl up on the makeshift stage. Although it was impossible to hear what she was saying, the crowd was drinking it in with wide eyes and parted mouths. Suddenly, the smoke halted its upwards procession, instead moving down to swirl around the girl. Vague shapes and silhouettes of animals formed, and the girl laughed as she tried to reach for a grey rabbit that dissipated as soon as she touched it. 

Even more applause followed, gold coins tossed in the bag at her feet, which was already half-full. Newt found himself entranced, unable to look away as she took a bow. The guards did not seem to share the same sentiment.

“ _ Witch! _ ” they shouted, running towards her. “ _ Halt, sorceress!”  _

The woman startled, and the crowd began to scatter. She handed off the little girl to her parents and rushed them in their way as the guard approached. A defiant look in her eyes, she turned to face them.

“What is your business here?” demanded the first man. 

“I—”

The second one examined the bag of coins. “And how’d you get this?”

“I—”

“Stealing, probably. Witch like her probably enchants the coin to run to her.” They grabbed the bag. 

The woman scoffed, trying to pull it back. “I’ll have you know, I most certainly did  _ not  _ steal it. And I’m not a witch.” 

“Oh, then what are you? Because  _ that _ isn’t what regular people do.” He jerked his chin at the herbs hanging above her, the sparks long since extinguished. 

She glared at them. “I am an occultist. And professional descendant. And I earned this myself, which is probably more than your lot can say…” she snapped her fingers, and the various stones and bundles of plants scattered around her suddenly began to move closer, gathering into a neat pile. “...with your blood-money payroll and metal-for-brains.” 

The guards shouted, as if her words literally hurt them. One grabbed onto her wrist, pulling her off the podium. “Think we’d better take this one in for extra questioning. No funny business allowed in these streets, after all.” 

Newt watched as she struggled, spitting curses that would’ve made a sailor blush. Then, he got an idea. Letting go of his horse’s bridle, he gave a sharp whistle. The mare bounded forward, knocking into a few empty barrels and running right in between the two men. One fell completely on the ground, while the other one simply stumbled. But it was enough.

The woman locked eyes with Newt, and gave him a thankful nod. Then, she drew her cloak over herself and was gone a moment later, leaving a puff of smoke in her wake. 

Newt strolled up to where the men were getting their bearings. “So,” he said, looking down at them. “Would you like to tell me where I can find the judge?”

* * *

Judge Shadwell opened the door to squint at the new Captain. Behind him, a woman peered past the doorway. “Who’s that?” 

“Newton Pulsifer, sir. Reporting for duty.” Newt nodded. He had ended up leaving his horse at a stable, temporarily, upon realizing it wouldn’t be the best career move to bring her inside. His curiosity was piqued by the strange woman with neatly styled hair and painted lips, who hovered behind the judge.

“Ah, Captain Pulsifer.” Shadwell shifted aside to let him in. “Your reputation precedes you.”

“I’m glad to hear it, sir.” Newt stepped inside, just as he saw the woman wave a hurried goodbye and take her leave. Definitely strange. “Your lady friend seems nice.”

Shadwell laughed—or more accurately, guffawed as he closed the door “Madame Tracy’s a whore, lad.”

“Oh.” Nothing Newt has ever seen on the front lines had prepared him to deal with conversations such as these.

“Of course, we are just acquaintances. She came around for tea.” Shadwell looked at the new recruit. “Now, don’t just stand there, come along.” He beckoned Newt past the entrance hall, up the winding stairs of the place where he did his work. “I suppose you know the details of what you’re doing, yes? Protect the city from harm, lead the guard, be an exemplary pillar of morality.”

“Yes, sir,” Newt said. “I just have one question.”

“Well, speak up.”

“Some other guards let slip something about  _ angels _ ? I mean, not to be disrespectful, but I must have misunderstood because—”

“Oh no, you’ve got it absolutely right, lad. Angels, who would’ve thought. They don’t have those where you’re from?”

“Not particularly, no.”

They stopped on the second floor of the building, inside what seemed to be a large study. It was with a start that Newt realized the various metal tools set up in the corner of the room.  _ Alchemy.  _ He shivered, but decided to stay quiet. Everything else was nice, if a bit dusty, with scrolls and other writings scattered about. When Newt looked closer, they all seemed to be about the identification of witches. 

“Well, the Holy Ones outrank even me. Gabriel shows up the most, and he should appear here at the Palace of Justice any moment now, but I’ve seen Michael come down once. There are other ones we just don’t see as often. Suppose we’re blessed.”

Newt blinked, then blinked again. Witches and angels and alchemy. Not what he expected from his promotion, but he could always improvise. “Would that mean there are demons as well?”

Shadwell laughed again, clapping Newt on the back. “Yes, and sorcerers. All evil, the lot of them.”

Newt found it difficult to reconcile the smile the witch gave to the little girl as anything remotely evil, but he held his tongue. Or at least tried to. “They can’t all be bad, right?

“Lad, you’re from the battlefield, so I’m going to let you in on a secret.” Shadwell beckoned Newt over to the balcony overlooking the city. If one were to look closer, one would see three angels materializing on the outskirts, by the steps of a cathedral, then splitting up, leaving the one with spotted wings alone. But Newt saw nothing except colorful banners. He furrowed his eyebrows. 

“The real war,” said Shadwell, pointing at the crowd assembling below, “is down there.”

“You’re quite right, Judge.” A voice boomed behind them. Newt jumped around, only to find himself staring at a man with violet eyes and three sets of wings. He looked as cold and unreachable as the icons created of him. But this was real. Newt found himself floundering under the Archangel Gabriel’s gaze. “And this is your new Captain of the Guard?”

Shadwell all but bowed, his previous demeanor gone in an instant. “Yes, your Holiness. Newton Pulsifer.” 

Gabriel dismissed Shadwell with a wave of his hand. “I understand you were supposed to attend the celebration with the guard to keep order, is that right?” There was something in his voice that made Newt shudder like ice had been poured down his back.

“Yes, your Holiness.”

“Well. Consider yourself relieved of your duties for the day. I, myself, will take the guard and oversee the proceedings. This will not be a problem for you, right?”  
If Shadwell was disgruntled, he didn’t show it. “Not at all.”

Gabriel smiled, but the expression looked unnatural on his stony face. “Then it’s settled. I’ll leave you to your unnatural experiments and even more unnatural company. Tell me, Newton Pulsifer, have you ever attended a common folk festival?”

“No,” said Newt, awkwardly tacking on a “your Holiness,” when Gabriel narrowed his eyes.

“Then I suppose this shall be a new experience for you. Come along.” 

Newt followed Gabriel out, unable to shake the feeling that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed the second chapter!


	3. Gemmare

Aziraphale had waited so long for this moment. But now that he was finally here, he found that he could barely breathe. Right in front of his wide eyes, the most wonderful scene unfolded. 

Caravans, tents, and various stalls were set up, dyed wooden signs hanging above them.  _ Sword-swallowers—dancing outfitters—fresh roasted nuts—potions and poultices.  _ Shopkeepers shouted their prices, beckoning people over with wide smiles. Old crones whose faces were hidden by black hoods promised tarot readings and predictions of the future. Long-legged dancers adorned with shimmering silks and ornamented veils ducked under flaps of fabric, emerging with painted faces. He had never seen such colors, scarlet vermillion to ochre and turquoise and violet. The rainbow of hues spun around him, forcing him to spin in circles to take it all in until he was dizzy.

All sorts of smells bombarded him, fragrant incense and spices rose over the smell of cooking meats and sugars. Children shrieked as they chased each other in the square, bells jingled, instruments played. Coins and candies were thrown in the street, people crouching down to sweep them into their purses. Fools and mimes also marched, tossing little handfuls of gem powder that glittered in the air like an enchantment. 

“ _ Welcome! _ ” shouted a costumed man. “ _ To the Jeweled Parade! _ ”

If Aziraphale could fly, he would be taking to the skies. Instead, he gaped openly at the scene before him, wishing more than anything else that he was an artist, so that he could memorialize this moment forever. But no canvas could truly describe this. How could he ever capture the vitality of everything Aziraphale had ever wanted in a simple painting? It was beautiful, more so than anything in Heaven. Maybe that was blasphemous, but Aziraphale couldn’t bring himself to care.

He wandered the streets, wings hidden by a white cloak that billowed in the wind. Few people paid him mind, although Aziraphale did end up buying and pocketing some sort of fruit called a nectarine. A few ornately bound scrolls caught his eye as well, but he drew himself away, making a mental note to ask Neriah where his put-aside book collection was. By the time he reached the square, his heart was pounding, pulse rushing through his ears.

The crowd had struck up a dance in the main plaza, around the wooden stage in the center. No guards had arrived, so most of the magicians and gypsies had set up shop near here, making the most of the business before they could be caught by the law. A woman grabbed onto Aziraphale’s elbow and pulled him into the circle of people. He spun with her before being caught by someone else and whirled away.

A laugh escaped him. No matter what happened, this would be worth it. This one beautiful day. 

“Guards!” someone shouted distantly. The voices quickly turned to: “The guards...it’s the angel...Archangel....make way for Archangel Gabriel!”

Aziraphale froze, seeing the carriage approach. He needed to hide before he was seen. In his desperation to get out of the square, he narrowly avoided being trampled by the Captain’s horse, only to trip on his cloak and fall backward into a tent, knocking over a dressing curtain. Now, although he assumed it to be empty, but the shocked yelp from its one inhabitant told him otherwise. 

Aziraphale looked up to find a figure, clutching a robe just barely on their shoulders, eyes wide and staring. There were multiple things that he realized, all at once. Number one, those eyes were not natural. They glowed yellow, like that of a snake. Number two, this was a dancer still getting dressed. And number three, despite the lengthy hair, messy locks going all the way to their waist, the figure was most definitely a man. 

“Hey, look,” the man said, tying the robe solidly around his waist. “I know it’s a celebration and all, but you’ve got the wrong tent. I’m not that kind of dancer.”

Aziraphale flushed a deep red, trying to scramble to his feet while also stammering out a reply. “I’m not—that’s not—” He finally got a foothold and managed to stand up. “—I fell in.” 

The man raised an eyebrow, brushing a stray curl from his face. “You fell in?” He pronounced every syllable carefully.

“Yes, I…” Aziraphale trailed off when he noticed his cloak had slipped off his shoulders when he had gotten up. It lay in a heap at his feet, leaving his wings completely exposed. Gnarled bones, strange feathers, and all. But the man paid them no mind, instead dropping down to pick up the cloak and hand it back to Aziraphale.

“Well, I suppose you made quite the impression.” When Aziraphale didn’t respond, too focused on properly covering his wings, the man kept talking. “You’re not hurt, are you?” He looked over Aziraphale intently. “Doesn’t look like it. No harm done, in that case.” The man guided Aziraphale to the exit of the tent. As Aziraphale stepped out, he heard him say: “try not to fall in anywhere else, alright?”

Aziraphale nodded, regaining some of his composure. “I’ve reached my daily clumsiness quota for the day.”

The dancer chuckled, reflecting the sun just-so. “I’ll look for you when I perform. Nice costume, by the way.” 

Aziraphale barely had time to process that his wings were mistaken for fakes when the tent closed in his face. Blinking a few times in order to steady himself, Aziraphale turned around just in time to see Gabriel walking up to where his throne was placed, at the end of a long boardwalk connected to the stage. He sat down, surrounded by guards, all sets of wings out in their full glory. People couldn’t help but stare. The human guards eyed them warily, ready to intercept any threat.

Aziraphale found a small table by the stage and sat down, next to a group of men. He was dazed, the image of the human dancer still stuck in his mind. 

“Oi, you reckon we shouldn’t drink this close to the Holy One?” one member of the group nudged Aziraphale. His words were slightly slurred. “Has anyone ever gotten smited for that?”

Aziraphale shrugged. “I wouldn’t know,” he said, honestly. He wasn’t trusted with matters like those. Then, just to be spiteful towards Heaven, he ordered a cup of honeyed wine. Scanning the crowd in an attempt to find Saniel or Neriah, he glanced over who appeared to be a witch, and a group of four kids with wooden swords chasing each other around. He caught sight of the two Guardians, twirling together far closer than truly necessary. Their noses were almost touching.

Waving to get their attention, Aziraphale drained his cup and tried to make his way through the crowd to them. Instead, he got caught in another dance, this one in the shape of a square, involving four people. The steps were easy, and by the time he was released, Aziraphale was laughing, little bits of paper confetti stuck to his hair. He couldn’t quite see the other angels anymore, those close to the stage. Only the guards and Gabriel, who examined the mortals with an impassive detachment. 

“Come one, come all!” shouted the announcer, climbing up on the stage with a woven barrel. “Draw nearer to witness the finest in the city, a sorcerer of fire who will leave you enchanted!  _ Anthony J. Crowley! _ ” 

With a start, Aziraphale realized this must be a stage set up for the man in the tent.  _ Enchanted, indeed.  _ He stumbled forward, even closer. The announcer opened up the lid of the container, out of which slithered a large serpent, hissing a threat as he coiled up. Then, the announcer threw a bag of scarlet gem powder down on the stage. Through the shimmering haze, the outline of a man could be seen.

Aziraphale marveled at the magic trick. It was almost as if the snake had transformed itself.  _ What a silly notion _ , he thought. 

The smoke cleared, and Anthony stood on stage, clad in loose silk pants and scandalously low-cut vest that appeared to be made out of cowhide. From his belt dangled coins and jewels that glowed red in the afternoon light. A large sash decorated with tassels was wrapped around his wrists behind him. When it caught the wind and billowed out, it almost appeared as if though wings were extended behind him. All in black, amidst a sea of color he appeared as a shadow, cutting through the sky with his elegant, sweeping limbs. 

He was a vision to behold, even by himself, with his hair stylishly braided up and tied with an onyx ribbon, the rest left loose to fly in the breeze as surely as the fabric behind him. But when he started to move, body folding and bending to the drumbeats from backstage, Aziraphale found himself truly entranced, all the air escaping his lungs. Anthony spun on the top of his feet, light as a feather in the way he jumped from spot to spot. Throughout the acrobatics, men and women alike whistled their approval.

Aziraphale broke concentration for one second, only to see Gabriel curl his lip and turn away. “ _ Disgusting,”  _ he scoffed, loud enough for some to hear. 

Anthony perked up, glancing towards where Gabriel was sitting aloof. Doing a neatly executed flip, he turned around, headed straight for the Archangel with a wicked grin. Jumping up on the arm of the throne, Anthony leaned in close enough for his and Gabriel’s noses to touch, and ran his fingers through the middle pair of wings. Right from the downy feathers to the primaries, with the same smug smirk. 

Aziraphale’s jaw fell open. Touching an angel’s wings was...it was... _ pure sacrilege.  _ Not only was it the closest a mere human could get to Grace, but it was also the most intimate part of an angel’s being. And in front of all those people, too. It was akin to undressing Gabriel in front of the crowd, who had burst into whoops and cheers that were quickly silenced by equally appalled guards. Nobody quite knew what to say.

But Gabriel’s face, even as it twisted into one of revulsion, had an undercurrent of something Aziraphale had never seen before.  _ Temptation,  _ he realized, a chill running through him.  _ The Archangel Gabriel is tempted.  _ And by a mere human dancer, no less. 

Then, Anthony placed a hand on the back of Gabriel’s throne just as he jumped back, leaving the chair in a place of almost tipping over. Gabriel’s expression turned to one of indignance, and the moment was broken. 

Anthony almost looked like he was flying, tasseled silk blowing behind him as he spun on his feet. Every twist of his body seemed like a taunt. The drums beat faster. He plucked a spear right out of a hypnotized guard’s hand, stabbing it into the bottom of the stage. Using the momentum, he spun himself around, a fluid shadow soaring through the sky, before ending up crouched on the ground. Then, he raised his head and winked.

The applause was deafening as it rang out, money and flowers and words of adoration being thrown at the stage. Everyone was cheering, it seemed, except Gabriel, who simply seethed in silence. 

Anthony rose, taking his sash and tying it around his shoulders so as to obscure most of his body. He took another bow, gathering the money thrown his way with cheerful swipes of his feet on the stage. “Now,” he said, grinning. “It’s time to announce this year’s Ruler of Illusions.” 

People began to walk up to the stage, cloaks covering most of their costumes. It was a yearly tradition, to crown the man—or woman—whose disguise was most convincing. Families would get together to sew dryad skirts and dragon horns, tailoring it down to the slightest detail. It was also Aziraphale’s favorite thing to watch from up above; the absolute creativity that was revealed in humans. 

When he looked up, he saw Anthony looming over him. “Come on,” he said, offering a hand. “Yours is just too good to pass up.” Before Aziraphale realized what was happening, he was being pulled up on the stage. In front of everybody. In front of  _ Gabriel.  _

He needed to get down immediately. “No, really, it’s fine. I’m just here for—”

“Nonsense! Look, I’m rooting for you, okay?” Anthony tilted his head. “Just don’t take a tumble of the stage, alright?”

Aziraphale found himself unable to refuse. He stayed frozen, the ability to make words vanishing from his tongue. One by one, Anthony walked down the stage and pulled the cloaks off each person standing, the announcer shouting their names out. A faerie with a crown of daisies, an indigo mermaid with scales that appeared real, even a serpent—much to Antony’s amusement and Gabriel’s exasperation. 

Finally, Anthony stood in front of Aziraphale. He smiled reassuringly. Before Aziraphale could stop him, he unclasped the brooch keeping the wings hidden. The white fabric fell to the ground. And Aziraphale was seen. By the crowd, by Anthony, by  _ Gabriel. _

He couldn’t breathe.

Aziraphale had heard many things concerning his wings. Gabriel called them a sign of his impurity. Angels showed their judgment of his crippled form with their disdainful stares and whispers. After all, what use was he to the Almighty with no powers, not a shred of Grace to speak of? Even Saniel and Neriah had questions—about his tainted feathers—even if they never voiced them. 

Never in his entire existence did he think he would be  _ applauded  _ for them. 

“ _ King!”  _ The crowd began to chant, pointing towards him. If Aziraphale wasn’t so wrapped up in his wonder, he would’ve noticed Gabriel, down the boardwalk behind him, rising from his seat with an expression of outrage. But all he was focused on was the crown made of polished branches that the announcer placed on his head. Aziraphale laughed, unable to believe this was happening. He had never felt more elated than in that moment, standing on stage, his wings being a subject of adoration instead of repulsion. Even if they thought it was a costume.

“The King of Illusions is…” the announcer leaned in to say to Aziraphale: “what  _ is  _ your name?” 

He was about to speak, only to hear his name in someone else’s mouth.

“Aziraphale _ , _ ” Gabriel said, biting it out like poison. “ _ Principality  _ Aziraphale, if you would like to get technical.” He clasped his hands together, and a blinding light shone above him. At his side appeared Michael and Uriel, who exchanged twin looks of annoyance. The people gasped. Three Archangels in one place was virtually unheard of. And  _ what  _ had Gabriel said…”

“That’s right. Your so-called  _ King of Illusions... _ well, his wings are not exactly fake.” A slow smile overtook Gabriel’s face.

Aziraphale’s blood ran cold. It felt like he was freezing over, eyes wide in horror as they flickered between the people and the angels. His heart seized up and took a tumble down his ribcage to land with a sickening thud in his gut. All of his happiness came crashing down in one fell swoop as the Jeweled Parade went completely silent for the first time ever.

Anthony was the first to speak. “You’re an  _ angel _ ?” An unreadable emotion flickered across his face, right along with shock as he stumbled back, raising his arms as if to defend himself. “What the—”

Aziraphale could do nothing but stand perfectly still as murmurs rose up around him. 

_ He’s a Holy One...but his wings...Fallen…Gabriel said...did you see his wings…unnatural ...what is he? ...demon. _

That word. Demon. It echoed. And grew. Until the silence was consumed with it.  _ Demon demon demon,  _ all directed at Aziraphale; everything he had ever feared being actualized in front of him. He wanted to protest, to prove that he  _ wasn’t,  _ but what could he say? His wings couldn’t unfold, his feathers were black. And when he looked to Gabriel for support—Gabriel, who had supported him for so long—all he got was a shrug. Michael and Uriel stood still, watching impassively as Aziraphale had to duck to avoid the first thing thrown at him. 

The stone fell uselessly against the stage, but more followed. Aziraphale had nowhere to go, no way to fly away. Gabriel simply sat back down, holding back the Captain of the Guard, who was ready to rush forward, with a wave of his hand. A lesson needed to be learned, and Aziraphale understood that he was alone. Nausea rose in his throat. 

Aziraphale ducked out of the path of another thrown object—some kind of food, perhaps—only to be struck in the cheekbone by a pebble. It wasn’t large by any means, but heavy enough to stun him. He was left reeling, true fear starting to build up within. A small part of him assumed that Gabriel would put a stop to this before there was any real harm caused. But nothing was happening. 

Then, the last person he ever expected to come to his aid spoke up.

“Hey, Arch-bastards or whatever,” Anthony turned to snarl at Gabriel. It was then that Aziraphale noticed that his teeth were almost fang-like. Definitely not human. “You want to see a demon? Then letsssss have it.” As the hiss rolled off his tongue, feathers emerged from his back, unfurling into two great black wings that sliced through the air like inkblots.

The eyes. The snake. The fangs. It all came together like a puzzle. This was the Serpent of Eden. 

A collective gasp came from the mortals and angels alike. Gabriel’s face contorted with rage. He leaped up from his throne. “How  _ dare  _ you, you wicked fiend.” 

The demon snorted. “Ah yes. You let one of your own get attacked while you stand by. Tell me, who’s the wicked one here?” He turned to the crowd of people, who had gone still. “You worship these beings, yet you fear them as well. See their so-called  _ purity,  _ how they purposefully mislead you. Divine or not, how can you let them control you like this? Stand up to them and you’ll see—”

“Silence!” Gabriel’s voice shook the very fibre of the city. Aziraphale had never seen him look so angry.

The demon turned to face him. “ _ Truth, _ ” he said, with absolute certainty. “The Almighty never intended this.”

Gabriel strode forward, sword materializing in his hand. It cut a flaming arc through the space in front of him. “You have no right to speak of the Almighty’s plan. You are Fallen, cast out, below even the lowest of low.” He turned to the Archangels behind him. “Michael, Uriel. Seize the Principality. Guards, keep the humans from rioting.” 

The demon turned to Aziraphale. “Can you fly?”

Aziraphale spluttered. “Can I—does it  _ look  _ like I can fly?” 

The demon rolled his eyes. “Alright then. Hold on tight, angel.” Before Aziraphale could react, an arm was wrapped around his waist and the demon was reaching out to where a string of flags hung across the plaza. With a snap of his fingers, the rope snapped and fell towards them. Then he was holding on as it swung back, taking the both of them with it.

Aziraphale had never flown, but he figured the sensation was something like this. If it wasn’t for the black feathers in his peripheral vision and Gabriel calling him back, it might’ve been exhilarating. The demon laughed, depositing then on the top of a caravan. 

“Over here, you ass,” he yelled over at the Archangels. 

“Submit yourself now, fiend, and we still might show mercy.” Gabriel glared. At a later date, Aziraphale would recall that the human dancer Gabriel was tempted by wasn’t a human at all. He would wonder the implications of that. But right now, the thought escaped him. 

“Uh, yeah, no thanks. I’ve seen what your mercy looks like.” The demon’s grip on Aziraphale tightened as he lowered his voice to a low murmur. “Listen, I’m not kidding about holding on.”

Swallowing down his fear, Aziraphale nodded, bracing himself on the demon’s shoulder. Although he didn’t particularly enjoy this, the threat of Heaven catching him was even worse. He could stay here, wait for things to cool down, and then play the infernal abduction card. 

The demon took flight. He snapped his fingers. The wooden boards of the stage the angels were standing on chose that moment to collapse. It was only a few seconds of distraction but it was enough. By the time Michael emerged, they were gone.

The wind whipped at Aziraphale’s skin, and he saw the demon’s own hair blowing behind him. It was less flying and more gliding once they got high enough—only the occasional powerful wingbeat to keep them aloft. Aziraphale never thought he could miss something he never had with such intense desperation. He hardly wanted it to end. The only downside was the uncomfortably close contact with one of the Fallen.

Once they landed on the flat roof of the Palace of Justice, the demon immediately released him, folding his wings back until they vanished. “No use drawing attention.” He gestured to the ground. “Sit down, won’t you?”

Aziraphale held his ground. “What if I don’t want to?”

The demon seemed amused. “Suit yourself,” he said, plopping down. 

After a few seconds, Aziraphale sat as well. Now that the buzz of adrenaline was wearing off, he could sense the ache where a rock had struck him. Wincing, he brushed his fingers along his cheekbone. Surely it would bruise. When he looked up, the demon was staring at him. He passed a hand over Aziraphale’s face—not quite touching—and when he pulled back, the pain was gone.

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “How did you...you’re Fallen.” Only angels could heal. Right?

“Yeah, well,” the demon shrugged, a small smile tugging at his lips. “Technically it still counts as thwarting the will of an Archangel.”

“That wasn’t Gabriel’s will, for me to get hurt.” Aziraphale didn’t know why he felt the need to defend him.

“What, so he just happily missed the bit where the humans started throwing stones?” The demon laughed, shaking his head. “Nope. You’re just brainwashed.”

Aziraphale gaped at him with a look between indignance and shock. “Look, Anthony—if that even is your real name—I’m much obliged for the rescue, but you are being unspeakably rude. Just because you’re Fallen doesn’t mean you have to accuse me of not knowing my side.” 

“Crowley.”

“What?”

“My real name.” With a lopsided grin and a shine in his eyes, Crowley extended a hand. 

Hesitantly, Aziraphale shook it. “In any case, thank you.”

“No problem. Could see that you didn’t really want to go back. Figured I’d do something kind for once. Also, got a chance to show up the other ones.”

Chewing on his bottom lip, Aziraphale tried to figure out the wording to his question. “Did you...is it true you—”

“The whole original-sin thing?” Crowley said with a raise of his eyebrows. “Yeah that was me. Went down like a lead balloon, that did. The angel guarding didn’t seem to think so, though. She was awfully mad, and all for an apple.” He paused. “You wanna know what I think?”

“What?”

He spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “The Almighty  _ wanted  _ them to eat. I mean look at it this way: fruit tree, smack in the middle of a garden. Also conveniently not guarded from the inside despite  _ knowing  _ my lot travel up through the earth. So,” he made a vague gesture with his hand, “free will is in the Plan.”

Aziraphale tried to deflect his wonder with a chuckle. “Gabriel would skin you alive for that.”

Crowley’s fangs shone when he smirked. “Oh, I know.”

Aziraphale didn’t quite know what to say to that. The Fallen were evil, that much was drilled into him from day one. Humans deserved compassion, guidance from their eternally-tempted state. But demons, they were beyond saving. But Crowley didn’t seem evil at all. In fact, he was nicer than most of Heaven’s citizens.

He shook the thought from his head. No use in adding blasphemy to his ever-growing list of sins. 

“Since we’re all about asking questions,” said Crowley. “What about your wings? Don’t tell me those are natural.”

Aziraphale avoided his gaze, staring at his own feet. “They are. Please don’t bother me overmuch about them, I don’t know why either.”

“Okay, alright, sorry. Didn’t mean to press. Just wondering why Gabriel’s so determined to keep you under his thumb since you’re pretty much useless to him.”

Aziraphale recoiled. “ _ Pardon _ ?”

Crowley’s face fell as he tried to recover. “Ah, shit. S’not what I meant. Just...Gabriel likes what he can use. A powerless angel isn’t exactly on that list, no offense.”

Aziraphale had never heard anybody speak so openly to him. He decided he rather liked it. “How do you even know what he’s like?” 

Crowley tapped a finger to his temple. “I was in your place once too, remember? And Hell isn’t exactly big on messing with people’s memor—”

Before Aziraphale could truly understand what Crowley was saying, a figure settled on the roof in front of them. Dread sinking his heart, Aziraphale looked up to meet Gabriel’s violet eyes. A slow smile curled his lips, a gesture that was supposed to put them at ease but instead made Aziraphale even more afraid. 

“Hello, Aziraphale.” Gabriel clapped his hands twice, summoning Michael and Uriel, who immediately strode forward to grasp Aziraphale’s arms. Their grip was painful, even more so as he tried to squirm away. They ignored his protests. “Pull him up to Heaven. And  _ don’t  _ say a  _ word _ .” 

Crowley remained sitting, looking down his nose at the Archangel. “The pompous prick himself come to visit.” His wings unfolded behind him, a silent show of power. Gone was the almost awkward persona he had shown Aziraphale. Every shift of his body screamed taunting arrogance. “Had enough of being shown up publicly, I take it? No matter, a private embarrassment can be arranged.” 

Instead of growing angry, Gabriel simply held his cheery expression as he clapped a third time. Glowing purple bands wound their way around Crowley’s limbs, forcing his wrists together and his wings back into nonexistence. He hissed, trying to get away from the Light. “Oh, you  _ bastard _ ,” he snarled up at Gabriel. 

“I think you’ll be singing a different tune soon, demon. Holy shackles are no laughing matter.” Gabriel, without losing the expression of perpetual joy, leaned down and yanked the ribbon tying Crowley’s hair back. As he used it to pull Crowley to his feet, it unraveled in his hand. Ignoring Crowley’s vehement curses—or was it blesses?—Gabriel turned to Michael and Uriel.

“You two go ahead. I’ll take care of the snake.”

Aziraphale vanished in a burst of Light.

Gabriel tucked Crowley’s ribbon in his shirt pocket. He knew exactly the place to put the creature. 

“Tell me, demon. What do you know of consecrated ground?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is probably one of my favorite chapters in the entire work! Loads of fun to write, from Crowley and Aziraphale's interaction, to the dancing scene, to Gabriel. I really hope y'all enjoyed it as well, so please comment your thoughts. Thank you for reading!


	4. Magia

“Yes, your yellow aura represents an almost childlike naïveté, as well as a propensity towards happiness. Be cautious of who you let into your inner circle, for a close friend might betray you. And...have you been speaking to your mother lately?” 

The customer—Anathema had forgotten her name a long time ago—tutted and shook her scarf-covered head.

“No, no. I’m afraid not. It’s all been rather chaotic, what with me eloping with that man and all. Don’t suppose you have any potions for luck?” The woman fixed Anathema with a pleading look. Anathema resisted the urge to roll her eyes. 

“Nothing on my person right now, but...oh, well I  _ suppose  _ for a few coins I could write up a recipe. All rather simple, really.”

The nameless customer, gullible as ever, nodded, handing over two silvers. Prices ran expensive for black-market witches, after all. Anathema took them and ducked past the embroidered curtain to get to her back-room. She tried to think of what to write. It wasn’t a scam, per se, because she really did have magic and she did use it. Just not for overly rich, pompous clientele. And not for something so trivial as family issues. 

She had a mission here, after all. 

Three ground dandelions ground with a tablespoon of ginger root, mixed with milk under the full moon. With a secretive smile, Anathema scribbled down:  _ brew while naked!  _ Perhaps not luck with relatives, then, but with the customer’s new husband. She snickered, taking a moment to adjust her round glasses before emerging with the envelope.

“There you are.” She offered her best smile.

“Oh, oh thank you! What a bright young girl you are,” the customer cooed. 

“Nice doing business with you; come again soon.” Anathema, having set up shop a fair distance away from the main plaza so as not to attract the attention of the guards, ushered her from the tent with a sigh. It was a predictable routine at this point, although that didn’t stop her from the disappointment. Even if the end goal was admirable.

She sat down in the carved wooden chair outside her green tent, advertising balms, salves, and natural poultices. Of course, everyone who knew her face knew it was a front. If a customer asked for the red sage cream, they would then be able to choose from a wide array of vaguely fraudulent services. Including, but not limited to, aura-readings, palm-readings, fortune-telling, and actual potions that were fairly useless but ended up working anyway.

Auras were real. Ingredients could manipulate body chemistry to an extent. Futures were finicky. Other than that, it was a lie based off the truth.

What very few people knew was that the money almost completely went towards bribes. She would pay off various men to leave the forests and streams and earth alone, only to get the coins back from them later. Easy, effective, and it messed with the system. Nature was happy, and Anathema was rewarded.

She also had a book. A very special book. One that she couldn’t even decode. What the seventh Hell was ‘ _ the sky stairs in the did consecrate toweth'r shalt leadeth the darkened’  _ or ‘ _ the riv'r shall spiteth up thy opponent, thy charm'r’  _ even supposed to mean? 

“Don’t go flying away from me now, honey. This festival still has a few daylight hours left to go and I do not intend to spend them without company.”

Anathema was snapped from her chant by a familiar voice. The resident of the tent right next to hers, offering seancès and other services. “I don’t intend to lose the heaviest business of the year, Miss Tracy.” It felt strange to call her  _ Madame  _ like every other client, although it slipped out occasionally. 

Miss Tracy laughed. “Assuming one of those knucklehead guards doesn’t arrest you first.”

Anathema waved her off with a smile. “Oh, don’t you start. You spend all of teatime with the Judge, yet I don’t see you hauled in for questioning.”

Miss Tracy’s kindly face turned crestfallen. “Mister Shadwell is something else, I tell you. The man’s an alchemist in his spare time, yet can barely spend ten minutes without calling me a jezebel, or worse. I swear, it’s the Archangel, taking over his job and worming into his head.”

Anathema, mostly due to her career, had never met Gabriel, but she had heard enough stories. Those more well-off adored him, hanging onto his every word like lapdogs, if lapdogs could hear. Those like her and Miss Tracy, on the wrong side of the law, were a bit more skeptical of the Holy Ones.

“It’s just his job,” Anathema said. “He can’t exactly be seen all friendly with someone who claims to be able to peel back the veil.”

That fact didn’t seem to stop Miss Tracy from sighing. “No functional brew for love in that satchel of yours?”

Anathema chuckled, pushing up her glasses. “Apologies, Miss, but I’m not exactly exemplary in that department.”

Miss Tracy straightened up, a sly look in her eyes. “Do tell. What men have broken your heart?”

“Men, women,” Anathema shrugged. “It’s all the same. Women don’t want to leave their ass husbands, and nobody wants to be openly involved with a witch.” 

Miss Tracy nodded solemnly, opening her mouth to respond, but was quickly cut off by a ruckus so loud it could only come from the main crowd. They both jumped to their feet, Anathema sending out her senses, ending up in the eyes of a bird. Some kind of sparrow, perched on a scaffold, watching the scene unfold:

A black-winged man, taunting the thrice-winged angels, only to swing away on a flag string. Anathema gasped. This was a  _ demon.  _ She knew very little about them. But what she did know came from her nice and accurate book that said:  _ demons be ye allies, the serpent be thy friend. _

Which was the reason why she ended up here in the first place, following the trace of the angels in the hopes to discover where their counterparts were. After all, why else would her mother leave her this book while on her deathbed? 

The demon flew away with another strange-looking being after causing the stage to collapse. The angels flew out and took off in hot pursuit.

Anathema was thrown back in her body and onto the dusty road with a yelp, although she got up just as quickly, dusting off her clothes. “Watch the shop,” she called, already running. “Don’t let anyone go in!” 

Then, she was off, feet pressing into the ground with each step as she sped up. She needed to find those angels, figure out what was wrong in the city. The last few weeks, there had been whispers of shadows, rumors of evil creatures hiding in alleyways, planning something. Anathema hadn’t the faintest what that could be, but she was willing to do whatever it took to find out. 

By the time she got to the stage, the guards had corralled the people back. She stumbled to a halt, trying to find a way around. Before she realized what she was doing, she was dashing through the thick of the crowd, hoping for the bodies to hide her from prying eyes. Anathema looked to the sky for a flash of feathers but found nothing. 

It was only when she managed to stumble her way out of the crowd that she realized the Archangels weren’t the only ones there. Down by the fountain on the other side of the road, two women conversed. There was nothing particularly angelic about them to a regular human, but Anathema could feel the holiness radiating from them like a beacon.

“Hey! Hey, you two!” She almost fell into the basin. “I need to know where to find the three Archangels that vanished from the square. Can you two help me?”

The one with black hair and skin just a few shades darker than Anathema’s furrowed her eyebrows. “And  _ why  _ am I supposed to know that?”

Anathema stared her down, but it was the companion that broke.

“She knows we’re angels, Sanny. Give it up.” Turning to Anathema, she examined her with sharp grey eyes. “Why do you need to ask?”

“Look I...I don’t have much time,” Anathema tried to sputter out. “I really really have to find that man in the black dancer garb. It’s a prophecy thing. I’m a professional descendant.”

Either the angels knew she was telling the truth or they were just exceedingly trusting. They seemed to believe her anyway. “Check the cathedral,” one said. “And if they ask, you didn’t hear it from us, okay?”

Anathema grinned from ear to ear. “Thank you, much obliged. Also,  _ she _ ,” Anathema gestured to Sanny, “is madly in love with  _ you. _ ” She pointed at the second one. Before she could hear their reaction, she was off running, winding through narrow streets in an attempt to find the cathedral and  _ there _ —

Three beings materialized at the steps with a blinding flash of light. Two were Archangels, but the third was something else. Something with wings not unlike the roots of an old tree. She made to follow them, but was stopped by a spear in her path.

“And what exactly would you be doing?”

She looked up and saw the Captain of the Guard. And then she grabbed his spear and pushed it back towards him, so that the dull side hit him squarely in the chest. He yelped. Then, she jammed her heel against his ankle and sprinted the last few meters to the heavy doors. By the time she made it inside, the angels were gone.  _ Dammit.  _

“Wait, I just want to talk.” The man from earlier had chased after her, apparently. She glared, and he raised his hands in placation. “Please don’t kill me,” he joked. “I’m not armed, promise.”

She relaxed, but only somewhat. “What do you want?”

“To talk.”

“Shouldn’t you be arresting me?”

He chuckled. “Yeah, probably. But I’m new so they have to give me a pass. First offense and all.”

Anathema waved at the mural of Adam and Eve, drawn with gold paint on the ceiling arching above them. “Didn’t work out so well for those two, did it?”

The man broke out in a grin that was as infectious as it was awkward. “No fig leaves to speak of, but my mom makes a mean apple pie.” 

“Hm.” She didn’t sound impressed. “I still don’t trust you.” 

“Well, you should, because this is the second time I saved you.”

Anathema bristled, the full force of her evil-eye falling on him. She could recognize his face now, the guard from the marketplace with the horse. Kind enough, she supposed, but still a guard. Miss Tracy might’ve liked to flirt with the other side, but Anathema had better sense than that. “I don’t need  _ saving.” _

“No doubt about that, you handled me well enough on your own. I’m Newt, well, Newton Pulsifer, if you wanted to know.” 

She didn't introduce herself. “Ironic name for a Captain.” 

He groaned. “If I hear that  _ one  _ more time—”

The doors swung open behind him. And as Anathema found out, there was no need to pursue angels when one would inevitably find you at the worst possible moment. Archangel Gabriel, bearing pristine robes and even paler wings, strode into the cathedral. Next to him walked a man, well, Anathema supposed he was a man, whose face was contorted in a grimace as he did a little dance, as if trying to keep his body off the floor.

Newt turned to the Archangel. “Hey, your, uh, your Holiness. Did you get the cause of the disturbance?”

Anathema resisted the urge to snort.  _ Seriously? _

Gabriel’s gaze fell on her next, taking note of her hands which bore the stain of magic. His nose wrinkled as if she was a particularly unpleasant smell. “Yes I did. Now do your job properly, Captain, and capture the witch. She is one, isn’t she?”

Anathema’s eyes widened as she realized what had happened. He had led her into a trap. “You  _ lying son of a— _ ”

Newt shot her an apologetic look before speaking to Gabriel. “I would arrest this...this wicked sorceress, but I’m afraid she has claimed sanctuary.” 

Anathema tensed, mouthing every word with unprecedented venom. “I did  _ what _ ?” She had her shop to get back to, she still had things to sort out at the festival, and she hadn’t even found the angels. And now some nobody guard who had helped her out once had tricked her?

“I cannot arrest her, your Holiness—” The title would never not be funny, despite the rather dire situation. “—for to do so would be breaking the laws of consecrated ground.”

Gabriel paused for a few seconds before scoffing. “Fine, leave her here then, and get her when she tries to leave. She can’t exactly stay here forever.” He then turned to the man jumping around next to him. “Reconsidering your choice, demon?”

_ Oh.  _ So  _ this  _ was the one who had caused so much disturbance. But then who was escorted inside here? Anathema’s head spun, the beginnings of a headache appearing. 

The red-haired demon rolled his eyes. “I told you where you could shove it and I’ll tell you again.”

Gabriel smiled. “Perhaps some time on consecrated ground could change your mind. He waved a hand, and the demon flew forward. Hissing, he tried to peel himself off the ground, but his bound wrists gave him no leverage. With a final glare at Newt, Anathema rushed forward to help him to his feet.

Gabriel laughed. “The demon and the witch getting along. How fitting. Captain, summon the guard to stay outside and wait. Don’t let the demon escape.” He clapped his hands together and vanished in a blinding flash, leaving Newt to quietly slink out of the cathedral, not willing to even look at Anathema. Once the doors closed, a deep silence settled over the place, one that was only broken by the constant patter of feet as the demon tried to stay off the ground.  _ Holy ground,  _ Anathema realized.

“So,” he said, voice only slightly unsteady. “Witch?”

She ignored the question, for the answer was rather obvious. “We’re trapped, then.”

He laughed. “Didya see how Mister Knight-In-Shining-Armor was looking at you? No, only one trapped here isss me.” 

Anathema scoffed. “I’m nobody’s princess. And he’s the one who betrayed me in the first place.”

“Men, am I right?” He said, as if the form he was inhabiting wasn’t male. 

She bit back a laugh. “You’re too funny to be a demon.” 

“Check my aura and it comesss back dark as pitch, doesn’t it?”

Anathema did, in fact, check. She nodded as if the color glowing off the demon wasn’t a pearly off-white. There was no way that this was the original tempter and yet...everything pointed to that being the case. “Yes, yes. Very evil. Is the floor really that bad, er…?” She trailed off, not knowing his name. 

The demon nodded. “Crowley. And it feels like walking across the ashes of a fireplace that hasn’t quite gone out yet.”

Anathema paused. She had always had what Miss Tracy fondly referred to as a ‘rational brain.’ There was always another way around. If Gabriel’s intentions were to cause Crowley discomfort, and the ground was the only thing blessed...

“I’m Anathema. And could you simply hex part of the cathedral?”

Crowley frowned, hopping over to lean on a pew. “Hex? How would that—nevermind. My powers still don’t work here. I’m a sitting duck.” He paused, muttering to himself, “do ducks even sit?”

Anathema hesitated only a moment before speaking up. She did need to make friends, after all. And any enemy of the law was automatically in her good books. “There’s always me. I’m completely fine here.”

Crowley looked skeptical. Some of his hair had started to come undone, falling apart from its meticulous braid with no tie to hold it back. “You’d do that?”

No use in responding with words. Sitting down by the steps leading up to where the choir sang, Anathema took out a small twig that was tucked into her belt. She passed her fingers over it, murmuring something that caused the tip of it to smolder. Using the ashes that had gathered, she drew a sigil on the steps around her. Crowley leaned over to watch her work.

“Huh. You do know some things after all. That’s…”

“Odegra. Devourer of worlds. Yeah yeah, I know.” The ash had begun to glow as the tiny bit of consecrated land was cursed. “I’m not a completely useless witch, you know.”

“Yeah but not one who specializes in black magic either, I’d take it.”

Anathema took a deep breath of air and blew away the sigil, leaving only the spiritual trace. She squinted up at Crowley, who was still doing his jig. “Look, you want the cursed ground or not?”

Hesitantly, Crowley stepped on it, and proceeded to lay himself on the steps with a sigh of relief. His bindings also vanished, freeing his wrists. Black wings unfolded from behind him as he relaxed onto the ground. Anathema couldn’t help but be amazed at the almost iridescent feathers, shining in the reflected light. She had never seen anything like it, and before she knew it, she was reaching out to brush her fingers along the primaries.

Crowley jumped, straightening up into a sitting position and swatting her out of the way. “Hands off,” he snapped. “I like you, but I don’t like you that much.”

Anathema tilted her head, tucking her hands under her thighs to resist temptation. “How much would you have to like me?”

Crowley’s expression did not change. “A lot.” His wings vanished, disappearing in on themselves. “And by that I mean  _ a lot.  _ Wings aren’t exactly a light matter.”

“Then why did you touch Gabriel’s, during the festival?”

For a second, Crowley looked almost confused. Did he not recall? Then his expression melted into indifference. “What—oh that. That was me showing the crowd that he’s not invincible. He still feels things, he can make mistakes, he can be tricked. Also, he was being a dick and I wanted to knock him off that stupid pedestal.”  
A laugh burst from Anathema’s lips. “I know the feeling.”

“I am worried, though.” Crowley pursed his lips. “For a new friend of mine, you could say. He’s not in the best position right now and I’m afraid I got him into all sorts of trouble. And I’m not even supposed to be meddling with him, since I’ve got my own mission here. It’s all a sodding mess, that’s what it is.”

Anathema nodded solemnly. She tried not to think of what awaited her outside, how Miss Tracy was faring, how she would even escape in the first place. And the prophecy. That was probably important, too. “Say, don’t suppose you’re planning something really important right about now? That you might need my help for?”

Crowley recoiled as if she had slapped him clean across the face. “How the Heaven do you know…” he turned pale. His wide eyes glowed amber in the light. “Don’t you  _ dare  _ tell a soul. If one angel hears about this, it’s all over. May as well chug holy water type of over.”

Anathema soothed him. “No, don’t worry, I don’t know anything specific. I’m actually going to offer my help.”

“Help?” Crowley raised both eyebrows.

“Yes. If you ever need to call on me, I’m a professional at interpreting ancient prophecies, and I believe mine say that you’ll need my assistance at some point.”

Crowley laughed. “I doubt that, you are only human. But I appreciate the offer. And just in case...” He leaned in and whispered to her one sentence, something that left her so shocked she could barely form speech. Her mouth moved open only to close again. She tried to process what she had just heard, and what that meant for Heaven and Hell and this entire city. Eventually, she realized she would never be able to put that into words, so she just settled for a bob of her head.

“I promise to help in any way I can.”

Crowley chuckled. “Bet they regret putting us both together. Now we just have to get out, eh?” 

“Eh indeed.” Anathema scanned the cathedral for anything she could use. “So you can use your magic now?”

“S’not magic,” grumbled Crowley. “But yes, I can. Why?”

“Give me a rock,” she said. “Just a small stone, I guess.” 

With a bemused expression, he handed it over. She stood, brushing out her skirts before taking it. “If I run and throw it down, they’ll think we’ve gone, and we’ll be able to make it out the front doors.” Moving towards the stairs, Anathema was stopped by Crowley. 

“No, think this through. Guards hear a sound, they’ll check inside first. We both run up, throw the stone, and run back down. It’s the only way.” 

Anathema nodded, helping Crowley up. “Then let’s hope this works.” They walked and hopped, respectively, up to the side stairs, ascending only one floor, and then making their way to where the arching stained-glass windows depicting the Bible were. Crowley looked at it, and said: “do the honors?”

Anathema never liked how they had shown King David, what with the affairs and all. She took great pleasure watching the rock shatter his nose and bounce off the roof before falling on the ground below. 

_ Hey, did you hear that?  _ The front door of the cathedral opened, and when the guards looked inside, they saw nothing.  _ Escaping...they’re escaping! _

Crowley and Anathema started running. They ran as fast as their feet could carry them, almost tripping down the stairs as Crowley all but jumped down. The aisle passed them by in a blur, their sole goal being the large doors. Anathema’s palm hit the wood and she burst into the fresh air once more. She felt the sun settle around her, almost orange as it approached sunset. 

Crowley wasn’t so lucky. The door slammed closed right before he could escape out of it. Anathema tried to pull the door open, but it wouldn’t budge. Conflicted, she took one last look at the cathedral before running. She could help him later, when she was safe. Now, she had a shop to close and a book to look over.  _ And a demon to thank,  _ she thought, letting her gratitude resonate through her.

_ Thank you, Crowley. _

* * *

“Hey, what—” Crowley’s body hit uselessly against the door, which had slammed right in his face. He only caught a glimpse of Anathema’s face before she was gone, too, allowed freedom while the cathedral still refused to let him go. A dull pain burned up his soul the longer he stayed near the ground. With a groan, he turned around, only to jolt.

Gabriel examined him with an expression somewhere between anger and glee. “I was just coming down to speak with you. So altruistic, for a foul creature such as yourself. Letting the girl go free? Yet even demons have to face their consequences.” He crouched down to sneer at Crowley. “And you have quite a lot to account for, isn’t that right?” 

Crowley stayed silent.

“Oh, don’t be so aloof. I was simply hoping for us to  _ talk. _ ” Gabriel clapped his hands, and they appeared in the chancel, right next to the altar. The holiest place in the church.

Crowley screamed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anathema is here!! Furthering on our human cast of characters, we have the ones not quite on the right side of the law, but adorable anyways.  
> Anathema is a nerd with a lowkey crush on Crowley (pretty wings, what can she say)  
> And that Saniel/Neriah conversation will be important!  
> Please tell me what you thought about this chapter <3


	5. Affectus

Crowley had compared being on consecrated ground to a slight burn. Uncomfortable, definitely something to be avoided, but not unbearable. This was nothing like that at all. This was the full force of faithful proceedings and a place blessed so heavily it was called the Holiest of Holies. This was standing right where the Bishop would in order to sanctify the Communion gifts. The fire invaded his bones and tore at his soul until his knees buckled and he kept screaming. 

This was agony. 

And Gabriel was completely unaffected. In fact, he seemed to bask in the energy, stretching out as Crowley writhed on the floor beneath him. After what felt like an hour but was probably only a minute, he leaned down. “Are you ready to talk now, Crowley?”

Despite himself, Crowley nodded through gritted teeth. He felt as if though he would combust if he were to stay here a moment longer. Gabriel clapped. The world shifted, the Light vanishing. Crowley found himself in a much darker space, and although the remaining zing of blessed fire still ran through him, this was far more neutral. Gasping for air, his chest heaved as he tried to recover a semblance of peace. 

Slowly, the last echoes of pain left him, and he was left with only a faint buzz that slightly irritated his skin. So they were still in the cathedral. With a groan, Crowley peeled himself off the floor, but made no move to rise. Gabriel stood, perfectly calm. His wings were still out. Crowley suspected that, unlike Aziraphale, who simply couldn’t fold them back, Gabriel just chose not to. 

“This is the undercroft, beneath the church. I figured it was rather fitting, concerning where you belong. Now, what is your purpose here on Earth, demon?”

Ah, there it was. Crowley would’ve gladly given information concerning anything else—his dancing, favorite places to eat, what Hell was like—that sort of thing. But this was off-limits. “Um,” he winced, popping his spine. “To have a great time.” 

Gabriel rolled his eyes. “Humor will not help you.”

“Don’t expect it to. Just sssaying, if you can get off your high horssse, Earth hasss plenty to offer.” Crowley didn’t bother holding back the sibilants, knowing that it would annoy Gabriel. 

“I am perfectly alright without the Earthly pleasures those lower than me indulge in,” Gabriel sniffed.

Crowley examined him skeptically. “Really? Because you seem pretty upti—”

“You still have not answered my question. Why are you here?”

“Well, I’m here because sssome  _ dick  _ threw me in the cathedral after arresting me for no reason.” Crowley shrugged. “But if I were to be released, I would most definitely not be here. Sssso, just let me go and I’ll get out of your feathers.” He gave a cheery smile, one that strained at the edges. 

“If you want to be difficult, by all means, go ahead. But you know the truth. I am simply trying to protect this city from harm.”

Crowley couldn’t help but laugh. “Oh, and what kind of harm shall I do?” He waved his hands in the air, voice pitched mockingly high. “Oh no, shall I  _ dance too well _ ? Maybe make a few people smile? Oh no, what if I, and I know this sounds bad, have some  _ fun _ ?” A mocking gasp left him. “Not allowed, right?”

Gabriel strode forward as if meant to strike him, but instead pulled Crowley up by the sash draped over his shoulders. He glared in a way that was probably meant to be frightening, but instead made Crowley giggle. “Shut your mouth, demon. I tire of your incessant attempts at comedy.” When he snarled, a bit of spittle landed on Crowley’s cheek. 

With a deadpan expression and an even flatter voice, Crowley wiped it away. “Um, I’d really appreciate it if you let go of my clothes. Like I said to someone a while ago, I’m not that kind of dancer. Also, your breath smells.” 

Gabriel let out a sound of pure frustration, shoving Crowley away. “How  _ dare  _ you imply such a thing? Your licentiousness knows no bounds.”

Crowley examined his nails, bored to death with this conversation. He would almost rather torture than having to listen to this. “You’re the one talking to me. I’m not the self-righteous bastard in a robe who can’t seem to let go of his hyperfixation on a certain demon.”

Gabriel raised his hands again, then lowered them, then  _ arghed _ as if this was the most vexing thing he’d ever had to do. “You are nothing but a foul creature of the night. If things went your way, you would turn the world into a den of sin.”

Crowley couldn’t help but laugh. “You flatter me, really, but where is all this coming from? Last time I checked, you barely know me.”

Gabriel’s eyes flashed with dangerous ire. For a second, Crowley thought he was about to get teleported back in the chancel. “Stupidity does not suit you, fiend. You tried to tempt me during the festival, in a misguided attempt to taint the purity of an Archangel.”

Crowley was starting to regret the whole stunt with the wings. Honestly, he was just dancing, no big deal. If anything, it was what made him feel more like an angel, weightless and happy and adored. But Gabriel didn’t seem to see it that way. “Look, it was seriously nothing personal. I barely even remembered until someone else brought it up. I get that you’re a thousand different shades of repressed—”

“—How  _ dare you _ —”

“—but that doesn’t mean everybody is out to seduce you.” Crowley leaned back with a sigh. This was getting tiresome. Through half-closed eyes, he watched Gabriel turn dark red, opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water. It was deeply satisfying, watching him lose his composure and not even be able to express his anger. After a solid minute or so of Gabriel’s silent seething, he whirled around and stormed up the stairs, pushing open the trapdoor. He turned back to glare at Crowley.

“Your insolence is as appalling as it is expected. Perhaps some time here will loosen your tongue.” And with that, he left Crowley alone in the darkness, faintly buzzing with holiness. 

Crowley closed his eyes and sighed, unable to truly get comfortable. The air was thick with silence, like a syrup poured through the void around him. Without anything to do, he simply slouched against the wall and let the quiet wash over him, listening carefully as the beginnings of the evening service started up, with the choir leading the people in solemn prayer. The hymn sounded like trembling sunlight and life, everything he was currently cut off from. He couldn’t help but pay attention to the priest’s voice. 

_ O Christ our God, who at all times and in every hour, in Heaven and on Earth art worshiped and glorified…. _

“Oi,” Crowley whispered, looking up at the stone above him. “You listening, God?” No response. But then again, there wasn’t exactly one before. Only the metaphysical backhand that sent him hurtling into Hell. But as always, he held out hope that his prayer could work, that he could make everything right again if only he could reach the right being. 

_...who art long-suffering, merciful, and compassionate… _

“I know you probably have better things to do than to listen to a demon, or if I’m even permitted to pray after everything, but,” Crowley shrugged. “You haven’t smited me yet, so I figure that’s allowed. Anyway, you know why I’m here, even if your angels don’t. I’m here,” Crowley took a deep breath. It felt strange, saying this out loud, even as he was drowned out by the hymns above. “Because I want forgiveness.”

_...who lovest the just and showest mercy upon the sinner... _

“Yeah, yeah, I know. What demon wants to be forgiven? Five of us, actually. Well, there were five before,” he swallowed. “Before Gabriel. But that’s not the point. The point is, there’s more of us. And I don’t know if that’s asking too much, but I just want them to be safe. Because if this whole plan doesn’t work out, we have nowhere to go.”

_...who callest all to salvation through the promise of blessings to come… _

“So I guess I’m praying for them. For You to love them as You love these mortals, and for You to grant them the same gifts. Is that too much to ask? Just a chance to prove that we’re better than what people think of us.” Crowley felt ridiculous knowing all this sappy poetic nonsense was coming from him, yet it somehow felt right to say.

_...O Lord, in this hour receive our supplications, and direct our lives according to Thy commandments… _

“And, uh, I would like to pray for that angel, Aziraphale. He deserves better than—ah shit, that’s probably blasphemy, isn’t it? Whatever, it’s not like You don’t hear it in my thoughts. Anyway, he deserves to be happy and I’m willing to bet that he’s not. I’m not even asking for you to heal his wings, yaknow? Just a bit of good old-fashioned love and joy.” Crowley snickered to himself. “Or a tunic that’s not decades out of fashion. Okay, sorry.”

__ _...sanctify our souls, purify our bodies. correct our minds; cleanse our thoughts…  _

“I know Your angels think I’m some salacious creature of shadow or whatever creative phrase they’d use, but I’m not. You know that, right?” Crowley blinked a few times —definitely not tears, he did not cry—and tried to orient himself. “I’m just here on a mission, and I’d really appreciate some divine intervention right about now. Not those winged buffoons, but some serious Heavenly power.”

_...deliver us from all tribulations, evil, and distress; surround us with Thy holy angels... _

“This is dragging on, isn’t it?” Crowley laughed. He probably sounded like a madman, muttering to himself in the dark. “Bottom line is: I really need Your help. I know you never intended for this to happen, this injustice and persecution and prejudice. So, please step in. Let people know that You’re still here and You won’t stand for this. I know You’re up there, and I just hope You hear. Because I still have faith, and others of my kind do too. Just don’t make me lose it, okay?”

_...that, guided and guarded by them, we may attain to the unity of the faith, and unto the knowledge of Thine unapproachable glory… _

“God help us all,” said Crowley, running a hand through his already-disheveled hair. 

_...for Thou art blessed unto ages of ages. Amen. _

“Amen,” murmured Crowley, the word slipping from his lips with only a twinge of pain. Then, he waited. And waited.  No response. The Almighty was silent, as always, the only hints of a presence being the singing coming from above. 

Crowley sighed. What had he expected, an angel to answer his prayers?

Ironically enough, that was exactly what happened. 

* * *

Under the light of the setting sun, Aziraphale paced the bell tower of the cathedral anxiously, the nectarine he had bought hours ago hitting his side every time he whirled around, waiting for one of the Archangels to return. Michael and Uriel had long since gone Up, and he hadn’t seen Gabriel since that scene on the roof. He hoped he wasn’t in too much trouble, but something weighing in his heart told him that he’d better start praying. Disobeying and attending the festival was one thing, but revealing himself to the humans and evading his brethren was something he would surely be punished for.

Aziraphale’s blood ran cold. Gabriel was always saying how easy it would be for him to Fall. What if this was the action that caused it, the fell swoop that would send him diving down into a fiery oblivion, cut off from God and creation? Bile rose rapidly in his throat. Watching himself become a demon was a future that he would rather die than see realized. Nothing Earth had to offer could possibly compensate for the beauty of Heaven. 

Except books. Books and food and ethereal dancers that became shadow on stage. 

With a start, Aziraphale realized he hadn’t even seen his library yet, the one Neriah put aside for him. In an attempt to shake away the heavy fear that settled in his bones, he began to search, wondering where she could’ve put it. Most of the bell tower was covered in a thin layer of dust, but a white curtain hanging to the side looked brand new. Curiously, he pulled it aside, only to gasp as rows of stacked, overflowing bookshelves were revealed to him.

It wasn’t much, only about seven or so, but each shelf was stuffed to the brim with volumes of all colors and sizes. He’d read most of them all before, of course, but he trailed his fingers out to run along the spines anyway. A smile glowed on his face. “Thank you,” he said, to no one in particular. 

Aziraphale had calmed down enough to think logically now, and the sight of his library had put him in considerably better spirits. Falling was all very sudden, and not something that could be carried out by an Archangel, no matter how powerful. So he would be fine. It was the consequence Gabriel would think up that worried him. Sighing, Aziraphale rubbed the bridge of his nose to push away an oncoming headache.

Evening vespers had already started, the congregation of men and women filling in the pews and letting their singing drift up the building. 

Aziraphale was used to rummaging through prayers. They were all very basic, really. Wishes for fame, for glory, for money, for love. Occasionally, a child would pray for her parents, or a husband would pray for his wife, and Aziraphale would start crying because as much as he wanted to grant those prayers, he couldn’t. But as he listened, a different sort of supplication reached his ears. He had never heard anything quite like it. 

Unlike every scripted, rehearsed, selfish prayer, this one was…

“Pure,” whispered Aziraphale. “Without a smudge of evil.” He searched for the source, only to frown. Who could possibly be praying in the undercroft? With a start, he remembered Gabriel’s words from earlier. The possibility seemed too insane and yet everything pointed to it. 

Aziraphale looked around, trying to make out the shape of an angel in the sky. Deciding to take a risk, he opened the door of the bell tower and walked down the spiral staircase leading to the main hall. Nobody paid him any mind as he crept towards the entrance. He caught sight of a trapdoor by side-wing and crouched down to pull it open. The candlelight illuminated the undercroft, and the shine of red locks caught his attention first. 

The demon Crowley looked up at Aziraphale. “Huh,” he said, and smirked lopsidedly. “Come to my rescue, have you?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes. “You wish. This is just me repaying you for the festival. So we’re even.”

Crowley did not seem to believe him. “Uh-huh.” He shuffled aside to let Aziraphale climb down as well, face glowing like a lantern. The black of his clothing camouflaged him perfectly. “Say, you got anything to eat?”

Aziraphale fished the nectarine from his pocket and tossed it to Crowley, who caught it with a strange look on his face. The bemusement faded into a grateful smile as he looked up at Aziraphale with unsettlingly-yellow eyes.

“I suppose I should say thank you.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, rocking back and forth on the heels of his feet. What a strange demon. “Better not.” 

“Well, thanks anyway. I know I don’t technically need to eat but,” Crowley shrugged. “Guess the body gets used to it after a while.” The sound made when his fangs pierced the skin of the fruit was audible. As he took another hungry mouthful, some juice dribbled down his chin. Aziraphale watched Crowley take bites of the nectarine, slender fingers rotating it until they were sticky and it was almost gone.

Aziraphale didn’t realize he was so intently focused until Crowley wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and directed his bright gaze at him. 

“What are you staring at?” Crowley didn’t seem to be upset, but a small smile pulled at his lips as he licked them clean. 

Aziraphale realized he was, in fact, staring and turned away sharply, the tips of his ears burning. “Nothing. Nothing at all. Not a thing.” Now his cheeks felt hot as well. “Listen, it would really be prudent for you to get on your way before Gabriel shows up.”

“Ah. Your boss.” Crowley sucked the remaining bits of fruit from the pit, leaving no edible matter behind. ”He took my hair ribbon.” 

“He’s not my boss.” Aziraphale’s words sounded hollow even to himself.

Crowley rose to his feet, dropping the pit on the ground. It rolled into a corner. “Then why do you let him boss you around?” He shrugged. “S’not like it matters. Blessed bastard still took my favorite ribbon.” 

Aziraphale didn’t know why he said what he did, or why he even spoke at all. This was strictly supposed to be a repayment, but instead he was here, conversing, with a  _ Fallen one _ of all beings. But that didn’t stop him from opening his mouth. “I think it looks rather nice loose.” It actually did; wild curls cascading down Crowley’s back like liquid flame. He’d never seen hair like that on anyone, so he could understand why Crowley took so much pride in it. Even if pride was a sin. 

Instead of laughing at him, Crowley examined Aziraphale with a strange expression. Then, he grinned. “Huh. You’re not like the others, are you?”

Aziraphale suddenly felt embarrassed again. “All I did was compliment you.” 

Crowley continued on as if he hadn’t heard. “No...you’re actually kind.” Neither of them spoke, not wanting to break the silence that settled over them like a warm blanket. Then, Crowley coughed and the moment was gone. “Now, I do want to get out of here, but,” he gestured to the floor around him. “Consecrated ground and all. It’s not so bad down here, in the undercroft, but outside it’s like being burned alive. So…” he trailed off. 

“I’m not carrying you,” said Aziraphale flatly. 

Crowley didn’t smile, but his eyes still shone like he had.

It might interest one to know that Aziraphale did, in fact, end up carrying Crowley. Or, more accurately, Crowley clung onto Aziraphale’s back for dear life as the angel raced up the stairs. He took care to avoid the nave where the people stood worshiping, choir singing the hymns of the evening, instead ascending up closer to the main doors. From there, he found the entrance to the bell tower. Opening the door with his foot, he deposited Crowley on the floor. 

“Hey!” Crowley ran to the railing of the balcony and jumped onto the carved stone. Immediately, he relaxed, a sort of sigh leaving him. His wings unfolded behind him, although they matched the now-black sky. Aziraphale walked and joined him, overlooking the city. 

“My first day on Earth,” he said, earning a surprised look from Crowley.

“Wait, really? You don’t act like it.” 

Aziraphale shrugged. “I read a lot of books, you know. I have some right over…” he moved to pull back the curtain, revealing the shelves. “Here.” 

Crowley flew over to examine them, still perched on the balcony. “I don’t read, you know. But they seem beautiful.”

Aziraphale furrowed his eyebrows, looking at Crowley as if for the first time. “You’re not like the other demons either. They’re all evil.”

Crowley barked a laugh, wings flapping to keep him balanced. His eyes glittered with mirth instead of becoming offended. “Who...who told you that? Wait, let me guess, your boss, the serious one with an ego?” Now it was Aziraphale’s turn to laugh. Crowley beamed, taking that as an answer in itself. “So I am right!”

“You’re ridiculous, that’s what you are.” Aziraphale rolled his eyes, but there was something fond about the gesture. “But yes, Gabriel said that. He’s the one who took care of me.”

“Took care of you?” One of Crowley’s eyebrows seemed in imminent danger of escaping his forehead if he raised it any higher. “What a personality difference. I mean, some stuck-up ass like him versus someone like you.”

Aziraphale turned away to hide his blush. “He’s really not that bad. I mean, I’m completely useless and he still protects me. I may not be Fallen, but I’m sinful-adjacent.”

Crowley shook his head. “That’s not protection, that’s isolation. For my money, he’s scared of you.”

“ _ Scared? _ ” Aziraphale scoffed. “Why would he be scared of a crippled angel?”

“Because you represent something he’ll never know, no matter how much he wants to play at God. Love.” 

“You barely know me,” protested Aziraphale. 

“Maybe so, but I know you’re not what he says you are. You’re so much more than what anyone tries to make you to be, and that’s what frightens those like him, who have only ever known their dogma.”

“Now you’re exaggerating.” Aziraphale looked away.

“I’m really not, but I don’t think I can convince you otherwise. Just know,” Crowley chewed his lip. “You’re the first non-demon non-lawbreaker to show me kindness. And that counts for a lot in my book. So,” he tapped a finger to Aziraphale’s chin guiding his head so that he had no choice but to look at Crowley. “I’m gonna tell you a secret.” 

“Oh?” Aziraphale tilted his head, a bit too distracted by how Crowley looked in the faint starlight. 

Crowley leaned in, until his every breath warmed Aziraphale’s ear. “If you want to find me, check the names of the pubs. They’re more literal than you think.” A weight settled over Aziraphale’s neck, and when he looked down, he saw a pendant hanging from a thin rope. It was a small, gold apple. 

Crowley smiled, and Aziraphale found himself breathless. “Looks good on you.” Then, before Aziraphale could comprehend it, he moved to brush his lips over Aziraphale’s cheek. “See you around, angel.” He took to the skies, his hair the only part of him visible in the night. 

Aziraphale stared after him until he could no longer see the color red, and even then, he kept looking towards the stars as if he would still be able to find Crowley. He touched his fingertips to his cheek, where Crowley’s lips had left an invisible mark, then to the pendant, which he tucked under his tunic collar. 

“Wow,” he whispered, and it sounded like a prayer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooo! Chapter five is here. The Crowley-Gabriel dynamic has arrived, and so has the Aziraphale/Crowley one. Please tell me what you think, and until next week <3


	6. Leporem

No morally upright woman would be out at midnight. Good thing Anathema wasn’t morally upright. 

She crept through the city, disguised with her shawl. Guards were easy enough to avoid, and traveling by night was standard practice for a witch. So if anyone saw her moving through darkened alleyways, they didn’t say anything. Determination in every step, she crept along the streets, a goal in mind. She needed to find what she had come for; she owed Crowley that much.

A weighted pendulum swung in her right hand, a small bag in the other. She murmured words under her breath, watching its direction. Demonic energy, especially when purposefully hidden, left minimal evidence. But there was still the slightest trail to follow, an inkling of otherworldly power that kept her moving. According to what Crowley had told her before her escape, the others were all hiding somewhere. Now, Anathema wasn’t sure if that was an invitation to find them or not, but she figured it was better to ask forgiveness than permission. 

Miss Tracy had some choice words for her, to, when Anathema finally showed up at sundown, just as the festival was winding down. So much for a day of good business.  _ Had me all sorts of worried,  _ the woman had tutted, collapsing her tent as fast as possible so that they could avoid the guards who enforced curfew. Not that there really was a curfew, per se, just an unspoken rule that if you were on the right side of the law, you wouldn’t be out at night. 

Tomorrow, Anathema would have to go out and use the coin she earned to protect the forest that gave her powers. And read over her book one more time. She barely had time to get all her things in order and bring them back to her cottage before she was off again, chasing a place that may or may not have existed. 

Just as she was examining her pendulum, trying to figure out which way it was swinging apart from the light wind that had started to pick up, a guard rounded the corner of the street. Anathema ducked behind a building, holding her breath as she passed by. Since when had she gotten so clumsy with law enforcement? It was usually a piece of cake for her to evade capture. No witch ever worth her spells ever got caught, and it was only thanks to the demon that Anathema had made it out of the cathedral at all.

She wondered about him. How he was doing, if he had made it out alright, assuming he still wasn’t prisoner. A shudder ran across her when she realized that he might still be on consecrated ground. 

When Anathema was younger, she had always wanted to be an angel. Watching them come and go on Earth, she soon became entranced with their ethereal beauty and graceful wings. And most of all, their ability to do magic in the open and be worshipped instead of persecuted because of it. But when she had relayed this sentiment to her mother, she had just laughed. 

“You don’t want to be an angel,” she had said, ruffling Anathema’s hair. “They don’t have the freedom like you and me.” 

“A demon, then.” Anathema was astute. Although she’d never really seen a demon, the pictures of them looked alright. She could handle a few boils if it meant being able to fly. 

Her mother just laughed some more. “You don’t want to be a demon, either. They’re just as trapped as the angels, although it might not seem that way. Being human is a gift.” 

Anathema had nodded, not really understanding. Weren’t humans the trapped ones, stuck on Earth with no powers to speak of? It was only when her mother had died, handing over a book of prophecy in exchange for a promise to stay true to herself, that Anathema realized what she had meant. Demons were evil, angels were good. There was no choice in the matter. But humans, they could decide which side to take. And in the case of this particular choice, good and evil were far more mixed up than seemingly possible.

Anathema stood in front of a run-down pub, pendulum pointing towards it. She couldn’t remember seeing anyone enter. The wooden exterior was splintering, making the paint depicting various plants and animals chip away, flaking in dark green flecks on the cobblestone. Looking up, she read the sign above her.  _ Garden of Eden.  _

She couldn’t help but laugh. Hell was full of comedians, after all. After a cautionary glance around the street to make sure no prying eyes were set upon her, Anathema reached for the doorknob, only to yank her hand back with a yelp. The metal  _ burned,  _ as if heated to its melting point. Anathema examined it, finding nothing out of the ordinary. Just a regular pub with an entrance that was most certainly enchanted. 

She opened up her satchel, taking out a pair of round spectacles. Although she technically had no vision problems, these were useful for detecting other types of energy. Like the demonic sigil on the top of the doorknob, which was invisible to the naked eye. Experimentally, she reached out towards it again, only to burn her fingertip. Whispering a curse, she put the glasses and pendulum away. There would be no getting into here, since she was almost certain the windows would be barricaded the same way.

Well, at least the demons were clever. Anathema would have to keep investigating, making sure she was ready when Crowley called on her to help. Despite his assurance that he would not be needing her help, Anathema knew her book would never mislead her.  _ The serpent be thy friend. _ Crowley was, no offense to him, a snake. There were so many other prophecies she needed to examine. Whirling around, Anathema collided with a metal suit of armor. She opened her mouth to speak, but was quickly hushed.

“Don’t scream, I’m not going to hurt you.”

She fixed the guard with a searching look. Something about him looked familiar. Then, he flipped up the visor of his helmet, and Anathema wrenched herself away. “ _ Newt? _ ”

He raised his voice, presumably speaking to the other guards. “Nothing here, men. Keep looking.” Then, he pulled her into an alleyway. “Sorry about that, but we really have to stop meeting like this.”

She yanked her wrist from his grasp, stepping well out of reach. “You’re the one that keeps chasing after me.”

He opened his mouth, then closed it again, ducking his head sheepishly. “Touché. I just wanted to apologize for what happened in the cathedral. I didn’t know Gabriel would show up, and I didn’t mean to betray your trust.”

Anathema nodded. She had better things to do than to stall with the Captain of the Guard. “Thanks, got it.” She tried to duck out of the alleyway, but Newt blocked her path. He must’ve seen her incredulous glare, even in the dark, because he immediately moved out of the way.

“Sorry, sorry. I mean, you can leave if you want, of course. I’ll lead the guards away from you. I was just hoping...maybe we could talk?”

Anathema crossed her arms. “And what is there to talk about?”

Newt shrugged. “I don’t know, anything. I never did get your name, you know.”

“Anathema.”

Newt smiled. “Nice to meet you, Anathema. What do you do for a living?”

God, this sounded like an interview. “I scam rich people out of their money and use my actual witch powers to protect nature, which your lot seems to be intent on destroying.”

“Oh. I, uh. I’m a guard. Obviously. And I used to fight in the war.”

“Obviously.”

“Yes, and obviously, my favorite color is green.”

She laughed, taking care to be quiet. Not even the words of a Captain were the final say. “You’re just saying that.”

Newt grinned. Oh God, now he was going to think he was making progress, when in reality he had become just barely tolerable. “Nope. I swear on my sister’s handkerchief.”

“You don’t have a sister, do you?”

He shook his head. “Used to. She died of fever when I was young.”

Anathema knew the feeling. “Same with my mother. Although it was only the two of us for a while.”

Newt glanced out of the alley. “Was she...was she also—”

“—A witch? Yeah. Runs in the family, I suppose.” Anathema looked up at the sky only to find the moon staring back down at her. It was late, and she had gotten what she came for. She couldn’t risk staying around longer, no matter who was keeping her company. “I think I’d better be going.”

Newt nodded, gesturing towards the empty street. “Uh, go for it. It was nice meeting you, officially, I mean.”

She smiled, wanting to reach out and pat him on the shoulder, but thought better of it. No use in getting attached to someone who was still supposed to arrest her. Anathema slipped out of the alley, letting out all her breath in a whoosh of air. She crept home, trying and failing not to think of Newt.

What a strange man. A guard who actively disobeyed his mandate, all for someone he barely knew. They weren’t even friends and yet he treated her like one. Anathema shook the idea from her head. She was not going to get mushy over two conversations. Nope. What she was going to do was go home, brew some tea, and then go to sleep. God knew she needed it. And she would never see Newt again. Great, fantastic, and she could actually concentrate on her work.

But something very different happened when she opened up the door to her cottage, only to find a visitor already there. Miss Tracy, her usually perfect appearance smudged around the edges, eyes puffy and red, hair a mess. She sat on Anathema’s couch, head buried in her hands, but looked up as soon she heard her come in. 

“Oh, I’m so sorry, dear, but I didn’t know where else to go and I remembered you told me where the spare key was and—”

Anathema rushed forward and enveloped the other woman in a hug. Whatever happened, it was obviously bad enough to have the normally independent Miss Tracy sobbing on someone else’s couch. “Shh, don’t worry. It’s alright, it’s alright.” She pulled away, wiping the tears with the back of her hand. “I’m going to go make tea, alright? And we can talk about it.”

Miss Tracy nodded, settling back against the sofa with a sniff. Anathema put the kettle on, muttering an incantation to make it go faster. She brought over a handkerchief for Miss Tracy to blow her nose, and then provided her with a replacement. When the pot started whistling, she prepared the chamomile tea. What a day this had been, for everyone involved.

Setting down the teacups on the table, Anathema patted Miss Tracy’s hand. “There you are...do you want to tell me what happened?”

“It’s all a mess. I’m afraid if I start talking I’ll never stop.” She took a sip of her tea. “This is very good.”

Anathema beamed. “Thank you, it’s homemade. Now, start from the beginning.” 

“Well, it all began when I came to visit Mister Shadwell for dinner, after making sure out tents were taken care of, of course.”

Anathema resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She had never met him, but already despised him enough that the familiar feeling of annoyance welled up within her. Anybody who could insult Miss Tracy was already in her bad books. 

“And, oh dear, I know you don’t enjoy talking about men—”

That was an understatement. One of the women Anathema had lain with for a short period of time had remarked that Anathema was  _ ‘a new sort of man-hating witch’  _ But this was about Miss Tracy right now, and if that was the cause of her distress, Anathema would be more than happy to lend an ear, and a hex.

“No, please go ahead.”

Miss Tracy sighed. “So I’m having dinner with Shadwell and he’s talking about his alchemy—he’s an alchemist, don’t you know—and I may have subtly suggested my true feelings for him.” Miss Tracy looked down at her teacup. “Well, I told him I had rather grown fond of him.” Her face scrunched up. “Oh fine! If you must know, I said I was in love with him.” 

Anathema gaped. She had heard this story too many times, all from her clients begging for a love potion to make their affections reciprocated. “He didn’t…” She would tear the Judge apart for this. 

“He did,” said Miss Tracy, and burst into a fresh wave of tears. Anathema went and hugged her again, listening to the sobs against the sleeve of her dress. “Said that I was nothing but a pretty face he kept around for entertainment, but my harlotry made me unsuitable for further company. Called me the ‘whore of Babylon’ and all sorts of awful things.” 

Anathema was going to kill him. Either that, or the group of aspiring mediums that had gotten fond of Miss Tracy over the years would. There wasn’t a kinder soul, really, and Anathema would’ve long since lost hope in the goodness of humanity if not for her. The Judge was an arrogant prick if he thought anything but. 

“You’re none of those things,” Anathema murmured reassuringly. “You’re sweet and wonderful and talented. And you’re my friend, which makes me obligated to tell you that he was an ass anyway.”

Miss Tracy laughed, back shaking against Anathema’s hands. “Thank you,” she said, draining the rest of her tea in one gulp. Anathema rose to refill it, but Miss Tracy pulled her back down. “Can you...talk about something? To distract me. I don’t want to think about him anymore.”

_ And good riddance, _ Anathema didn’t say. Instead, she took a deep breath, trying to figure out a way to phrase the events of the Parade and what had happened afterward. “Well, I met somebody.”

Miss Tracy perked up. “A he or a she?”

Anathema shook her head, but couldn’t stop the grin from spreading across her face. “A he. But it’s not like that.” Upon seeing Miss Tracy’s skeptical expression, she added, “He’s a guard, and not a very good one, at that. Let me go three times.”

“So you’ve made a friend?” Miss Tracy tilted her head. “About time, you can’t be hanging on to an old crone like me.”

Anathema swatted her arm playfully. “Hush! You’re not old in the slightest. Have you seen that portrait done of my great-great-great Grandmother, Agnes? Now that’s old.” She didn't deny the friend bit, though she would rather frame it as  _ vaguely fond acquaintances.  _ “And I met a demon,” she added. 

Miss Tracy’s eyebrows shot up. “A  _ demon? _ How were they?”

“Rather strange, if I’m being honest, but very clever. Wouldn’t let me near his wings, though. Got all touchy about it.”

Miss Tracy laughed, faint remnants of tear tracks still on her cheeks. “That’s to be expected, isn’t it? Anyways, what else?”

Anathema opened her mouth to speak, but then closed it, shooting Miss Tracy a concerned look. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

“No.” Miss Tracy smiled, with only a hint of sadness. “But I will be.”

* * *

In a chapel to the Virgin Mary, the Messenger bowed his head to the Heavens and prayed, the final echoes of evening vespers rising up from below. 

Contrary to popular belief, angels did pray, albeit a bit differently than humans. But on Earth, Gabriel could not assume his true form and sing out in Enochian:  _ holy, holy, holy art Thou.  _ He had only this vessel, with its simple tongue and other failings. So he spoke in the common language the prayers and supplications of the common people. His voice was low, and carried the power of a thousand hymns. 

“I confess to my Creator, God Almighty. O all-merciful, incorrupt, pure, undefiled, only sinless Lord, cleanse me, Your loyal servant, from all defilements of body and soul and from this impurity which happened to me because of my carelessness and indifference.”

Gabriel had no idea what would occur at the festival. From Aziraphale’s disobedience to everything that happened after. He still had to find an adequate punishment, although that could wait. Right now, he needed prayer to cleanse his mind.

“Purify me by the grace of Your Christ; sanctify me by sending down Your Holy Spirit; so that, rising up from the fog of my impurities and the fantasies of the devil, and from every diabolical defilement I might be made worthy to carry out Thy will.”

The life of an Archangel was never one of uncertainties. It was all absolutes and absolution. Gabriel knew he was pure, he was righteous, he embodied God’s virtue with his ever-watchful eyes and six wings. There was no room for stumbling. 

“Accept my repentance, God Almighty, and elevate me to high status once more, for You art blessed unto ages of ages.”

He repeated the mantra to himself. He was perfect, unable to do wrong in this vulgar world. Perfect. Sinless. After all, he wasn’t like the humans, who were constantly caught up in their lust for one another. Cowardly and licentious, they destroyed their souls without thought or care.

_ “Amen.” _

But prayer, holy though it may be, held no power against his sinful fantasies. 

He could still see the demon, his unholy wings blocking out the sky like two great shadows, his lengthy curls, the color of the setting sun, blazing wildly in the wind like a bonfire. Eyes, smoldering unnaturally yellow. Those lips, their perceived softness hiding fangs and a cruel tongue. Gabriel found himself dizzied by the recollection, imagining with piercing, painful clarity, how those lips would feel on his neck, his chest, lower still…

And he was snapped from the daydream with a bolt of shame that struck him to the core. 

He was torn between who to blame. Was this a test sent by God to test his loyalty or a cruel plan by the demon to reduce him to  _ this _ ? To make him stumble and Fall? It was the demon, it had to be, with his obscene dancing and wicked curses. This demon dared to corrupt his thoughts, to bring sin to his name. Disgust rose in the form of bile in his throat. The demon had left more than a mere ribbon behind in his wake. 

Gabriel could feel it burning a hole in the sleeve of his robes. It was one thing to simply think, but a tangible action to quell the desire burning inside of him would only cause more temptation. But with an apologetic look at the Virgin Mary, he drew the ribbon out of his pocket.

He brought the length of fabric up to his nose and inhaled deeply. The scent of the demon’s skin still lingered on the silk—a touch of sulfur, of lilac. The mere memory of him sent a shiver of pleasure running down Gabriel’s spine. His eyes fluttered shut, but that did very little to erase the image of the demon’s body from his mind. 

He feared nothing would.

The silk fell away from his face, taking with it the intoxicating smell. A frustrated sound leaving his throat, Gabriel whirled around to gaze up imploringly at the icon of the Virgin Mary. A mere human, yes, but she was a prime example of the purity of the Heavenly Father’s work. He remembered going to her, bearing the promise of Salvation. Nausea curled in his gut when he realized that she was more holy than he would ever be, for she had never been plagued with thoughts such as these.

“It’s not my fault,” he whispered, horror-struck. “Blame the Devil and his thrice-damned minion. Blame the Earth with its air of iniquity. But don’t blame me, please, God, for the weaknesses of the flesh bestowed upon me.”

He did not know which was worse—the weight of guilt upon his shoulder, or the weight of the stares he knew would crucify him for his sins. For the lustful thoughts the demon had inflicted.

“My being is pure, and I have only now been tainted by sin through no fault of my own.”

There was no response, only that same disappointing silence. Gabriel thought of the demon’s hair once more and revised his original thoughts on it. It was the perfect color of hellfire. Where the demon was created, and where Gabriel was in danger of ending up. Representing everything he wanted but could never have. 

So instead, he despised. With a snarl, he took the ribbon and threw it in the fireplace. It was slow to burn, but once it did, it shrivelled up quickly. Although Gabriel was not the Lord, and therefore had no power to give life, he could create something like it when the urge struck him. He turned his gaze to the fire, watching it begin to shift.

From the ashes rose a creature not unlike that of the demon, for he bore the same wings and eyes of ember. It might have been the ever-changing ash, but Gabriel swore it was dancing. The demon’s eyes beckoned him closer. His tongue dragged lazily over his bottom lip, as though to tempt Gabriel not with words, but with bodily urges.

And it worked. A surge of desire so strong it nearly took his breath away swept up the length of his body and settled somewhere in the pit of his stomach. 

“God have mercy on me,” he whispered hoarsely as he reached out towards the figure of ash. The demon crumbled to cinders beneath his fingertips the moment he laid a hand upon it. Gabriel was so engrossed in his prayer that he barely noticed the door to the chapel pushed open.

“Gabriel. The demon has escaped.” Michael’s voice carried from the entrance of the chapel. 

He whirled around tearing his eyes away from the burning ribbon. “How…” One moment he was interrogating the creature about his motivations here, the next he was gone. There was no way it could’ve gotten out of the undercroft, much less out of the cathedral, with the guards surrounding it. And summoning wings was impossible for a demon on holy ground. So how…

“I don’t know. But you have to find him.” 

Gabriel smiled. “Oh, I will.”

The hellfire would not get to him today, nor any other day. Not if he extinguished the source first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Creatures of ash give rise to temptations so sweet" -my girlfriend, in a poetic mood.  
> I really hope you enjoyed this chapter!! We got more Anathema/Newt in this chapter, also some Madame Tracy, and how could I forget Local Divine Prick Gabriel. The plot is about to come in SWINGING, so enjoy the peace lmao.   
> Please tell me what you thought bc every comment makes my day and motivates me to keep writing. <3 <3 <3


	7. Verum

It was morning on Earth when Gabriel finally went to speak to Aziraphale in the bell tower. Angels didn’t sleep, obviously, but Aziraphale was so entranced watching the city waking up that he hardly noticed Gabriel walking up behind him. Not until it was too late.

“Aziraphale,” came a voice, and the angel in question jolted so suddenly he almost tumbled off the balcony. “I have been wanting to speak to you.”

“Ah, Gabriel.” Aziraphale scrambled to his feet with a nod that looked closer to a bow. “I’m—I’m sorry about—”

Gabriel waved him off, instead crossing to prop his arms on the railing and look down at the people below. “So. You spent one day on Earth.” His eyes betrayed no emotions when he looked at Aziraphale. “Thoughts?”

Regardless of what Crowley had said, Aziraphale was still loyal. He had to be, to compensate for his lack of anything else. Taking a deep breath, he tried to phrase his answer in the most innocuous way possible. “It wasn’t as good as Heaven,” he said, averting his gaze. “I wish I had listened to you.”

Gabriel smiled, and Aziraphale could feel relief course through him. He wasn’t mad. “That’s good. You see, I was only trying to protect you.” He turned to examine Aziraphale’s wings. “There’s nothing wrong with your feathers…is there?”

Aziraphale’s blood ran cold, the same primordial fear of Falling etched in him from the beginning. His wings, as usual, were a dead weight on his back, but he couldn’t sense anything different about them. And yet, the look on Gabriel’s face said otherwise. “I...is there? I can't see them, is there something wrong?” His voice took on a slightly higher pitch in his panic.

A long pause before Gabriel’s response. “No, I don’t think so. But here…” he ran his fingertips along Aziraphale’s secondaries. “There might be a darker feather or two.” 

Aziraphale shuddered. He always hated when Gabriel did that, but he couldn’t exactly stop him. But maybe yesterday’s events had made him braver, because this time, he spoke up. “Please don’t touch my feathers,” he said, voice surprisingly even. “It’s unpleasant.”

Gabriel looked at him directly, raising both eyebrows in disbelief. Instead of growing angry, he relaxed. “Where is this coming from? I just want to help you,” with one precise movement, he took one of Aziraphale’s black feathers and plucked it out, offering a grin in placation. “Can’t exactly have too many of these, can you?” He let it be carried away by the wind.

“No,” muttered Aziraphale, shaking off the pain. “Can’t end up like that demon from yesterday.”

Gabriel nodded in approval. “Yes, exactly. I interrogated the fiend myself last night, only to have my suspicions confirmed.” Aziraphale tried not to show his interest, but Gabriel didn’t seem to notice anyway. “He is a diabolical creature with infernal plans to taint the purity of angels. You should be glad I got him away from you in time.”

Aziraphale thought of Crowley, how he was both blasphemous and faithful, how he questioned everything, how he  _ prayed,  _ even while on consecrated ground. How soft his lips felt pressed against Aziraphale’s cheek. And then he decided that  _ yes,  _ maybe he was affected. A little bit. “I really doubt he was all that bad, truly.”

Gabriel’s eyes blazed with a sudden fire. “ _ Truly? _ You want to know the  _ truth _ ? The truth is that since you’re already halfway to Hell, I was afraid that a day on Earth would do you in. And when you met that demon, I was sure he’d drag you down with him. But I saved you, just like I saved you before. I saw one mistake out of a million perfect creations, an abomination, and I took him in, despite the protests of those around me. And when you repaid my kindness with disobedience, I still forgave you.” 

_ But what did you save me from? _ Aziraphale couldn’t help but wonder.  _ And would it have been worse than this?  _

“I know you have that natural weakness towards compassion. But you have to understand that someone as inherently sinful as you will always have to walk a fine line. I’m the one you can rely on to protect you, keep you on the correct side. If you start letting your thoughts become polluted with imaginings of demons, well,” he plucked out another black feather, and tears jumped to Aziraphale’s eyes. “You might become one yourself.”

Aziraphale nodded, unable to meet Gabriel’s eyes. “I understand. I’m sorry for not obeying you. I will… I'll go back to Heaven, and review all my prayers. Go back to blessing souls. Whatever you want me to do.” 

A smile twisted Gabriel’s lips. “I think you’re right. Although I have some  _ things  _ that need to be taken care of in the city, I will send Uriel to take you back Up. Then we can discuss consequences more thoroughly. But for now,” he patted Aziraphale’s shoulder. “I’m glad you’ve realized the truth.”

Aziraphale finally looked up at Gabriel. “Yes, I have.”

“Good.” Gabriel clapped his hands and vanished, leaving Aziraphale there, alone. 

Aziraphale finally let himself relax, letting out all the air in his lungs as he sunk down onto the floor. He stared at the sky, then the large bells surrounding him, then at his own hands, wondering if they were capable of the evil Gabriel claimed. Questions swirled around in his mind, things that he’d never even considered until now. 

What had Gabriel saved him from? Why were his wings the way they were? Why didn’t he know anything about himself? How could Crowley be wicked if he was the kindest person Aziraphale had met on Earth? What authority did Gabriel truly have over him? 

And most of all: where was Uriel?

She was supposed to arrive shortly after Gabriel, but the longer Aziraphale waited, the more he became sure that there had been some sort of delay. He stole another glance at the city. If she was running late, he could probably explore the city further. His hand immediately went to the pendant hanging around his neck. And maybe he could even figure out where the secret place that Crowley had mentioned was. 

Aziraphale was technically already in trouble—so what was the worst that could happen? 

He made sure the clasp of his cloak was fastened, no use in drawing attention to his wings. With a cautionary glance around, he descended the stairs of the empty cathedral. As he crept down, the faint scent of smoke caught his attention. In one of the side-chapels, a fireplace still smoldered. Frowning, he ducked inside the room. Amongst the ashes, not burning, lay a black ribbon. Cautiously, he picked it up, finding it to be completely unharmed. When he brought it to his nose, it smelled of lilac. Very similar to a certain demon.

Aziraphale tucked the ribbon away in one of his pockets. If it was Crowley’s, he could return it to him later. But that brought up yet another question: how had it gotten here in the first place? Shaking his head to clear it, Aziraphale made his way out of the cathedral and into the crisp morning air. 

The streets were just as beautiful as ever, although much more calm in the aftermath of the festival. Shopkeepers were starting to open their doors, window curtains billowed in the breeze, and the sun cast a sheen of white-gold over the cobblestone streets. Aziraphale smiled. No matter what happened, he would always have the memory of the city in his mind. No wonder Neriah had told him she didn’t like Heaven compared to Earth. He immediately felt bad for letting it cross his mind, but soon gave up trying to police what his brain said. 

_ Check the names of the pubs,  _ Crowley had told him. Aziraphale ran his fingers over the golden apple. It immediately made his heart beat fast, knowing he had a secret, something nobody knew except him and Crowley. As he wandered, his mind did as well. He considered what he was doing and why. Saving Crowley had just been a way to repay him, to balance things out. But then they had talked up on the bell tower and Aziraphale found that he wasn’t willing to let this go just yet. Also, he did have a hair ribbon to return. That was what angels did, right? Return lost property and all. 

Gabriel wouldn’t like that reasoning. He’d say Aziraphale was just making loopholes for his corruption. 

“Pardon me, sir,” Aziraphale called to one of the guards. “Could you, by any chance, tell me where I could find the pubs?”

The guards blinked at him, and then burst into laughter. “At this hour?” He shook his head, still guffawing as he strode past Aziraphale. Well. That was that. Aziraphale sighed, twisting his head to read the names of the shops. What could that possibly mean? As he walked, he fiddled with the pendant. Then, it hit him.

Apple. Garden. Snake. Of  _ course.  _

And just like that, as if fate itself had arranged it, when Aziraphale turned around, he came face to face with an abandoned building, a sign reading  _ Garden of Eden  _ hanging above it. It looked fairly run-down, not at all a place that could be comfortably inhabited. Although, Aziraphale supposed that was the point. Taking a deep breath and steeling his nerves, he twisted the doorknob, only to be met with a sharp burning pain. Biting back a hiss, he examined the door. 

Ah. It was miracled with a fairly sloppy  _ keep out  _ curse, one that any angel could dissipate. However, Aziraphale wasn’t just any angel, he was a powerless one as well. But he wasn’t dull, not in the slightest. Just the hint of a smirk on his face, Aziraphale wrapped the hair ribbon around his hand and opened the door, the demonic taint neutralizing the spell. It swung open, revealing an interior just as disheveled as the outside. Smelling faintly of ash, the bar was deserted, and looked like it had been for a while. Aziraphale walked in, examining the dusty rug and crusted mugs. And then, his foot hit something.

Under the rug, a trapdoor. And upon opening the trapdoor, Aziraphale saw descending steps that were a sharp contrast to the rest of the bar. He stepped inside without a second thought, letting the door close above him. Not for the first time, he wished he was a proper angel, one that could say  _ let there be light  _ and have it work. But instead, he was forced to make his way through the darkness. 

It appeared to be a tunnel, although there wasn’t a particular smell to it, maybe some sulfur, if Aziraphale really tried, but definitely not sewage. No, this was a different sort of underground. He hurried along. Once he returned the ribbon, he needed to get back to the bell tower as soon as possible. Once Uriel showed up, there would be no escaping the trouble he’d be in. His footsteps echoed as he walked, but there was also something else. A sound that wasn’t him.

He whirled around, trying to squint through the darkness. “Hello?” His own voice returned to him. 

Then, someone hissed. Fire blazed up in front of him, and three dark figures appeared. Aziraphale jumped back, raising his hands in placation, but that didn’t stop them from lunging, unearthly bodies overpowering him easily. One with long, clawed fingers pushed Aziraphale forward, only for another, with three pairs of twisting horns, to catch him. The third, whose nose made them appear almost tiger-like, snarled at him.

“What’s this? A trespasser? A spy?” 

“An  _ angel _ ,” growled the clawed one, letting Aziraphale’s cloak fall to the ground. “One of  _ them _ .” 

“Listen,” said Horns, face twisting as he peered at Aziraphale. “I don’t know how you found this place or how you got in, but—”

Aziraphale tried to interrupt him. “I’m a friend of Cro—”

“ _ Silence! _ ” shrieked Claws. “White-wings like you probably doesn’t know what’s down here but believe me,” when she smiled, all of her teeth were as thin and pointed as needles. “It’s  _ not  _ savory.”

“Should we brrrring him in?” Tiger examined Aziraphale carefully. “Never seen those types of feathers beforrrre.”

“Probably a disguise.” Horns scoffed. In a bout of hysterical thankfulness, Aziraphale found himself relieved that no demon moved to touch his wings. The gratefulness was quickly replaced by fear when he was forcibly picked up. 

“Hey! Put me down, I’m not a—”

The guttural screeching drowned out his voice. Horns and Tiger were carrying him, their own black and torn wings unfurling as they flew down the tunnel. Claws turned around to peer at him. Her eyes glowed beady and red. “You may think you’re all clever, but you won’t be able to reveal  _ anything  _ to Heaven soon enough. It’d take a lot more than a miracle for you to get out alive.”

“If you would just  _ listen _ —” Aziraphale was cut off once more when he was dropped on a stone outcropping. Below him was more than a network of tunnels. It was a whole plaza, disguised underground. He gaped at the little huts and sleeping mats rolled out, fires burning at every corner of the great cave.  _ Hellfire,  _ he assumed, with a shiver. And below him, what must’ve been a dozen demons at the very least were assembled. They peered up at him with wide-eyed murmurs. 

“Unholy citizens, we have brought one of Archangel Gabriel’s spies before you. He seeks to reveal our location to the rest of his brethren!” Horns addressed the crowd with an echoing voice. A loud  _ boo  _ came from the crowd. Aziraphale tried, futilely to protest, to let them know he was here for Crowley and that was all. Surely the name of the First Tempter meant something to them? 

“What do you plead?” said Tiger. 

Aziraphale shook his head imploringly. “Innocent! I’m innocent and I’m here because of Cr—”

Tiger shook their head, faux-disappointed. “Innocent. You see, that’s why you're going to get  _ the cage. _ ” The crowd went wild. Although Aziraphale had no idea what that even was, simply the way it was said caused a shudder to run through his body. He would  _ not  _ die here, not at the hands of demons. Just as the three moved to seize him, another voice rang out. A startlingly familiar one.

“What the blessed Heavens is going on?”

Crowley made his appearance, right in the nick of time, his hair as bright as the torches hanging around him, wings extending out as he addressed the demons. Then, he caught sight of Aziraphale. His eyes went comically round, pupils dilating like that of a cat. “Angel?”

“Yes, he is an angel,” called Claws. 

“No, no,” Crowley waves her away, taking flight. He landed on the stone, a grin on his face. “My angel.”

Aziraphale, despite himself, felt his cheeks flush. “Not yours,” he mumbled. 

Crowley glared at the other demons. “He’s with me, in any case. So back off, Trinal”

Trinal’s face fell suddenly. “Well why didn’t you say so?” She frowned at Aziraphale, looking truly crestfallen. “We wouldn’t have gone through all the trouble of scaring him if we knew he was your friend.”

“Wait, wait.” Aziraphale could hardly believe his ears. “ _ Scaring me _ ? What the Hell—sorry—is ‘the cage’?” 

Horns, hiding a snicker behind his hand, pointed to what looked like a large wooden birdcage, if not for the blanket strewn at the bottom. “We couldn’t exactly have you running around spilling our secrets to the Archangels. And it would’ve only been for a little bit.” 

Aziraphale looked at Crowley, then at the three demons, then at the cage. And then he burst into laughter. “You…” he gasped out, “are  _ terrible  _ demons.” It was then that he realized there was never any talk of actually killing him, only stopping him from talking. The realization only made more hysterical giggles leave him.

Crowley shrugged. “Told you Gabriel was wrong.” Then, he waved away the crowd. “Get out of here, go! Disperse!” He turned to Horns. “Zolgoth, go find Beelzebub. Arnoch, Trinal, just...I don’t know, get out of here.” He pulled a face at them, although his expression was friendly. 

With a wry smile and muttered apology each, the demons flew away. Crowley and Aziraphale were left staring at each other. Aziraphale had thought his heart rate would decrease when the danger abated, but if anything, it beat faster. Crowley looked nice. But then again, he always did. His hair was tied in an elaborate bun at the base of his neck, only a few ringlets framing his face. Obviously, he wasn’t wearing performance clothes, but Aziraphale still couldn’t tear his eyes away from the scrap of skin revealed by his loose tunic. Although he had never really paid attention to the appearance of others, it now seemed impossible not to.

“So,” Crowley coughed, lacing his fingers together. “You found me.”

“I did.” Aziraphale’s hands went to the pendant. “You’ll be wanting this back then…” he moved to unclasp it, but Crowley stopped him with a soft smile.

“Keep it,” he said, moving to lean against the stone wall. “So, what do you think of the place? Took forever to find and even longer to establish. Sorry about Trinal and the rest; they get a bit overzealous as guards. They never would’ve hurt you, promise.” 

Aziraphale chuckled, looking over the miniature town set up beneath the city. “I know that  _ now _ . And using the old tunnel system really is brilliant. But why…?”

Crowley beamed, shifting from foot to foot. “Well, I’ll explain the whole deal later, since you’re obviously determined. But, long story short, we’re, er, no longer demons in the official regard. Sort of a transition point, you could say.” Aziraphale frowned, but had no time to articulate his words, because Crowley was extending a hand towards him. “Let me show you around? Can’t promise there won’t be strange looks, but we don’t bite.” He winked, and Aziraphale spared not a single thought about Gabriel or the rest of them.

This was the only place he wanted to be. 

He took Crowley’s hand, but instead found himself being swept up as Crowley flew them down to the bottom of the cavern. It was still absurd, fraternizing with one of the Fallen, but it didn’t quite feel so foreign now. They wandered the main cave, with Crowley pointing out various attractions. Apparently, when demons weren’t doing business with the fortune tellers and the like, their official business was weaving. Not for any monetary purpose, but just to have something to do. Many also wrote, as it turned out, and Aziraphale had almost fainted when Crowley whispered that he even dabbled in poetry.

“And this,” he gestured to where colorful blankets and mats lay piled in a circle. “Is where we sleep. If one wants to, that is.”

“Sleep?” 

“Oh, don’t look so incredulous, angel. See, it’s perfectly fine.” Crowley flopped down onto a yellow wool blanket. “Comfortable.”

“But it isn’t necessary.”

“Oh please,” Crowley laughed. “Not much fun in living life at the bare minimum, is there?”

Aziraphale sat down next to him cautiously. Sleep was just a tad bit too human for him to consider trying it out. Better not to tempt fate and all. “Can I ask you a question? About your dancing, I mean. If it’s not too personal.”

Crowley tilted his head. “Not at all. Shoot.”

“Hm?”

“Human expression. Anyway, what is it?”

Aziraphale focused on the wall across from him, watching the fire cast flickering shadows over the cavern. A few demons had crept around to watch the strange angel amongst them, but so far, nobody had approached. “Why do you do it? Dancing.”

Crowley raised an eyebrow. “Because I like to. Because I can’t exactly fly out in public and it’s the next best thing. Because, and call me vain, but I think I look blessed good doing it.”

Aziraphale laughed. “You actually do.” 

Crowley looked away sharply, but Aziraphale thought he caught a glimpse of red. “Can I ask a question in return?” 

“Shoot,” said Aziraphale, and was rewarded with a quirk of Crowley’s lips. 

“Why are you here? I know I invited you, but you are an angel. Hereditary enemies and all. But I haven’t seen one attempt to smite me, and I must admit, I’m getting kinda curious.”

Aziraphale sighed. “Oh, I don’t know. I guess I...I started having questions. About everything.”

“That’s how I Fell, you know.”

“What?”

Crowley shrugged. “Asked too many questions. Guess the Almighty got a bit too fed up with my insolence and tore me a new one for it.” 

Aziraphale mulled over that for a moment. He’d always been told that demons fell because they were too evil to be able to stay within Heaven’s gates. But the birdcage wasn’t evil, and neither was questioning routine. “I don’t think that’s fair.”

“Careful, angel. Don’t want the Hosts getting on your case too.” 

It was meant to be a joke, but Aziraphale was completely serious. “I don’t think I was meant to be an angel.”

A sudden fierceness seized Crowley. “That’s a pile of bullshit if I’ve ever heard it. Gabriel has a divine rod up his ass, so if he’s the one who told you that, I wouldn’t believe it for a second. ” Crowley turned to look at Aziraphale, eyes glowing with a certain sharpness. “You’re the most holy one there is.”

Aziraphale scoffed. “You keep saying these things, yet you hardly know me. Either you’re lying—no offense but you  _ are  _ still a demon—or there’s something you’re not telling me because—”

“Demon Crowley.” A short yet proud figure buzzed into the room. They inclined their head at Aziraphale before he could finish speaking. “Care to exzzzplain the intruder?”

Crowley bowed his head, rising from his perch amongst the pillows. “Lord Beelzebub. This is the Principality Aziraphale. He helped us once before and is someone I consider a friend.”

“Hey, sorry,  _ what _ ?” Aziraphale looked between them. “I only met Crowley yesterday. I never—”

“You don’t remember,” Crowley said, the truth coming on a soft breath of air. He turned to Beelzebub. “Leave us, please. I can elaborate later.” Beelzebub frowned at him, but vanished in a puff of dark smoke. Crowley turned to Aziraphale, easing him back down. “Look,” he said. “I just want you to know that our meeting wasn’t on purpose. I didn’t even recognize you until last night, when you were climbing those stairs.”

Aziraphale shook his head. “I don’t understand.”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Oh, bless it all,” he snapped. “You used to have your wings and your sword and your halo and whatever the Heaven else. You betrayed your fellow angels in exchange for helping us demons get forgiveness and Ascend, with a capital A, mind you. And then, the next time I saw you, you were the way you are, without any of your memories.” He crossed his arms. “How’s  _ that  _ for truth?”

Aziraphale gaped. His mind stilled going blank in shock. He could do nothing but stay frozen still, trying to put together the jumbled puzzle pieces of his thoughts.

Crowley continued speaking. “Now I don’t know why they screwed around with your brain, and Satan knows I’m ready to tear them all apart for that. But all I know is that you’re the same Principality from years ago, and not even  _ Holier-than-thou Gabriel the ass-angel  _ could change that.” 

“So,” Aziraphale said, trying to find words. Nothing came out. If he spoke, he could be in imminent danger of bursting into tears, and the last thing he wanted to do was embarrass himself. So instead, he stayed silent, trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he used to be an angel. A real angel, with all the trappings. And he had given that all up...for what?

For a couple of demons and a vague idea? How was he, before everything? How much of him did Gabriel take away? Everything was shattering down, everything he thought he knew was crumbling. Was that why Gabriel didn’t want him on Earth? Nausea rose up in Aziraphale’s throat. He was vaguely aware of Crowley saying his name with a surprising gentleness, trying to bring him back to reality with a soft voice. But Aziraphale didn’t understand. So he started to rewrite. Beginning with the facts, and going from there. 

He knew he was an angel. Past, present, and hopefully future, that’s what he would be. 

He knew that Gabriel was not a guardian. Gabriel was the one who had made him like this. 

And he knew that, for some strange reason, the past version of himself decided to risk it all for these demons. 

“Tell me…” Aziraphale sounded hoarse. “Tell me about who I was. Tell me what happened. You were there, right?”

Crowley hesitated. “You don’t remember?” When Aziraphale shook his head, Crowley sighed in defeat. “Bugger. I was hoping—well, it sounds strange now, but I was hoping you would be able to tell me how you ascended into Heaven in the first place. I mean, I know I was present, but that doesn’t mean I was exactly paying attention.”

“So that’s why you’re here?” Aziraphale gestured to the tunnels around them. “To find a way to get back up?”

Crowley nodded. “Yeah. We’re gonna try again. With about thirty demons this time, not five.”

“That’s dangerous,” was all Aziraphale could say.

“You knew that, before.” Crowley’s voice was barely more than a murmur. “You knew and you still did it. You brought us up to Heaven and you fought Gabriel to protect us. And you paid the price. I don’t know why you would, either. I just know that you believed so strongly in love and forgiveness that you betrayed everyone for it. And  _ that’s  _ what makes you holy. Not a stupid halo.”

Aziraphale breathed a laugh, blinking rapidly. This was all too much. He needed to go ...home? Somewhere? He needed to go and think. “I’m not that way anymore. I don’t think I ever will be.”

“No,” said Crowley, taking Aziraphale’s hand. “You’re far better.” They stayed that way for a while, Aziraphale’s mind buzzing and the warmth of Crowley’s palm over his. “I know you’ll probably want to think all of this over. Come on, I’ll walk you out.” 

Dazed, Aziraphale let Crowley fly him up to the outcropping, illuminating the tunnel he had gone down with a snap of hellfire. Neither of them spoke, not until they reached the steps leading up to the trapdoor. Crowley snapped his fingers and Aziraphale’s cloak appeared. He fastened it, fingers brushing Aziraphale’s neck gently.

Crowley smiled, and there was a hint of uncertainty in it. “You will come back, right? Not that you have to, I mean, just that I would really like to see you again. Well, not really _ ,  _ but a moderate amount. I would like to see you a moderate amount. There.” 

Aziraphale paused. The little ball of hellfire hovering by them made the entire tunnel flicker in the same shade of red as Crowley’s curls. Yellow eyes beamed in the darkness, and Crowley’s lips were illuminated ever-so-faintly. And he decided to add another certainty to his tiny list of absolutes.  _ Crowley was beautiful.  _

“Crowley,” he whispered, and the walls returned the words to him, like a holy chant.  _ Crowley, Crowley, Crowley.  _

“Yes? I didn’t mean to scare you off, angel, I just wanted you to know the tru—”

Aziraphale took Crowley’s face in both hands and leaned forward to press their lips together. It was soft and sweet and just a little bit awkward, because Aziraphale seemed intent on making the kiss last as long as possible. Crowley made a muffled sound of protest when Aziraphale pulled away. Maybe it was just the flame, but his cheeks were burning bright red. 

“Oh.”

Aziraphale smiled, resisting the urge to kiss him again. Probably because he knew that if he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop. “I want to help,” he said, with absolute certainty. “If past-me believed so strongly in this, then I’m willing to bet current-me would too.”

Crowley touched a fingertip to his own lips, as if in awe. “Bye, angel.”

“I’ll be seeing you soon, Crowley.” Aziraphale’s grin carried with him as he climbed out of the trapdoor, carefully pulling the rug over it. After that, things went pretty quickly. 

He went to the door.

He opened the door.

And the world was burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This has my favorite Crowley dialogue in all of Crowley's dialogue. "I would like to see you a moderate amount." What a fucking day disaster.  
> So...ineffable husbands, Big Reveals TM, and the plot coming in swinging like a baseball bat.  
> Thoughts?  
> (And thank you so much for reading!! <3 <3 <3)  
> ps. If you wanna find me on social media, or know when I upload, I’m the-ineffable-lesbian on tumblr!


	8. Ignis

Gabriel departed from the cathedral, all pretenses falling from his face.

Aziraphale was so easy to fool, really. Some well-placed jabs, and then a remedy from that distress, forgiveness granted in such a way that made the Principality as guilty as he was thankful. The same routine, repeated over hundreds of years. He should’ve used the memory wipe a long time ago; saved himself a lot of stress. After all, there could be no hint of rebellion from angels who believed themselves to be abominations.

Some more unrefined people might consider it a brainwash. Gabriel liked to think of it as guiding Aziraphale towards Heaven, if a bit forcefully. Was there anything wrong with it, honestly? Pride was a sin, after all, to which the antidote was humility. Just like lust, which could be remedied with chastity. He took flight, as if to escape from the thoughts that hounded him. The Palace of Justice couldn’t be found fast enough.

He didn’t like how Aziraphale was behaving lately. As the being watching over him, Gabriel knew Aziraphale needed to stay completely in line. Which meant being a quiet, good angel who never disobeyed and never questioned authority. It had been going great, but with the whole Earth and demon business, something Gabriel hadn’t felt in a long time worked its way into his chest. 

_Uncertainty._

He forcefully kept every thought of the demon from his mind, not wanting another moment of weakness. Facing one’s adversaries was important, as was smiting them. Gabriel would not make the same mistake twice. This time, he would get more help than just one bumbling Captain when he searched for the criminal. And then, once the whole business was over and done with, Gabriel would wash his hands clean of ichor and ascend up to Heaven.

Aziraphale would get some mediocre punishment, filing prayers, maybe, until the whole thing blew over. And nobody would ever have to think of pesky demons with brilliant hair and a sharp tongue ever again. Gabriel straightened his shoulders, striding in the justice building without knocking. Once he was past the doorway, he extended his wings to their full glory and called for Judge Shadwell.

The man in question, and old fool obsessed with his science and reprehensible company more than his faith, appeared at the top of the staircase. He bowed his head reverently. “Your Holiness. What may I do for you?”

Gabriel allowed himself a small quirk of the lips at the way he was addressed here. “I need to assemble all of the guard, along with the Captain. I’ll be needing you as well, I suppose.”

Shadwell gaped at him. “Er, yes, Your Holiness, but _why_?”

“Because, alchemist,” snapped Gabriel. “There is a demon loose in this city and I must find him before further harm is caused. Now, you got rid of your harlot friend, is that right?”

Shadwell lowered his eyes. “Yes.”

“Good. Then you’re still Judge. And as Judge, it is your responsibility to protect this city from evildoers, especially when an Archangels commands you to.” Gabriel’s voice cut through the air, not unlike his flaming sword. He watched Shadwell stammer his apologies and leave to summon his men. Humans were so pitiful. All it took was a push in the right direction, just a little bit of well-instilled fear, and they were off doing whatever you wanted them to.

Same with foolish, crippled angels who believed they could actually Fall, despite the Almighty going completely silent after the first batch of demons were made. Aziraphale was probably up in Heaven now, fretting over the terrible punishment he was sure to receive when Gabriel got back. Or maybe he was trying to get back down to the degenerate Earth that he loved so much. Gabriel had been telling the truth, or at least as part of it: the city really was tainted. Drunkenness, gossip, and lust ran rampant, even going so far as to corrupt Gabriel’s perfect mind.

But he was going to take care of it. 

“Ga—Your Holiness, I mean.” The Captain called. “You asked for me?”

“Yes.” Gabriel turned around. “I need your assistance in tracking down a dangerous renegade by the name of Crowley.”

Newt nodded, the slightest flicker of nervousness showing on his face. “Of course. Where do we begin?”

Gabriel led him out the door, sweeping his eyes over the guards assembled. He had thought this through, as much as one could in times like these. Demons, especially ones so well-adjusted to human living, had to be hiding somewhere in this city. A shiver ran down his body at the mental image of the demon, furious and bound with chains. Captured, at his mercy.

“Start interrogating families,” he said. “One shop at a time. Ask them if they have been harboring demons and other unsavory lawbreakers. I will know if they are lying.” Gabriel was vaguely aware of Shadwell exiting the building to stand by his side, surveying the scene with no small amount of nervousness. He pointedly turned away, headed for the first building he saw—a small windmill removed from the majority of buildings.

The door opened as soon as he knocked on it, the fresh smell of baking bread could be detected. Gabriel never did understand Aziraphale’s obsession with mortal things like books and food. Too distracting from the greater purpose. Too disappointingly mortal to be paid any use. A pregnant woman with an apron looked up at him, another small child peering with wide eyes from behind her. _Born out of wedlock._ Gabriel’s lip curled.

“Archangel Gabriel, what may I—”

He interrupted her swiftly. “Are you hiding any demons, gypsies, or otherwise sinners in your household?”

“Er, no.” The child tugged at her skirts and she hushed him. 

Gabriel indicated her doorway to the guards with a tilt of his head. “Then you won’t mind if we have a look around?” Before she could respond, he was barging in, guards flooding the house behind him. He pulled out rugs, opened cabinets, tipped over jars, all in the hopes of finding even a little smidge of a presence, enough to tip him off. But there was nothing. Even the baker woman, who cowered silently in a corner, had no trace of Hell. 

The guards raided her home, looking to Gabriel for approval, while the Captain stood off to the side, an expression of distaste plastered across his face. This was a rebellious one. That would have to change. 

“Captain! Any particular reason why you aren’t doing your job?”

Everyone turned to look at the man in question. 

The Captain crossed his arms. “She doesn’t know anything. Can we move along?”

Shadwell’s eyes flickered between the two, a heavy tension settling in the air. Finally, Gabriel let up.

“Fine. On to the next house it is, then.” As all the guards filed out, Gabriel clapped his hands together and the first flicker of holy fire built at the base of the windmill, flames eating the wood up with fevered eagerness. Nobody noticed it at first, but then the smoke was visible, and the entire place was burning. Gabriel smirked. The guards rushed to put it out, but he waved them off.

“Let them burn,” he said, already turning his attention to the next house. 

“But—”

“The woman—”

“How _dare_ y—”

Gabriel ignored the protests, forging ahead. It didn’t matter. Nothing in this entire city mattered except finding the demons. After all, how was a tree expected to grow when it was infested with termites? You had to burn the first layer of bark off and eradicate the pests in order for true growth to continue. He opened the door to a soap shop by himself, smiling cheerily at the couple who opened the door. Their sin also radiated from their souls. 

The guards were much more hesitant this time, and more than one reached out to try and usher the couple out. And each faltered under the force of Gabriel’s glare. The Captain, however, walked forward and whispered something to them. Nodding, they walked out. Gabriel remembered his name now. As the guards began to search, he turned to him.

“Captain Newton Pulsifer, what is the meaning of this?”

Newton met his eyes with steely resolve. “You started the fire. I won’t let you start this one.”

“You’ll regret this.” Gabriel didn’t have time to deal with this right now. It had become a steady itch under his skin, the need to go and _find_ and eliminate before any further harm was caused. 

“With all due respect, Your Holiness or whatever—the Judge is my employer, not you. My duty is to protect this city, and that includes its residents.” Newton stood to face Gabriel. “I don’t know what your deal is, but I won’t let you get in the way of my mandate.”

Gabriel gritted his teeth. Humans didn’t understand, didn’t know what it was like to have attained perfection only for it to be pulled out from under your feet. They were never pure to begin with, so they could not comprehend losing something they never had. Thinking only in the short-term, a few lives were gargantuan to them. Even though the souls would live on in God’s kingdom, people like Newton still couldn’t accept that.

He hated it, hated this world, hated this corporeal body. He hated weakness and he hated stumbling and he hated the snake-eyed demon that invaded him like a parasite. And most of all, he hated not being listened to.

Gabriel turned to Shadwell, making sure his wings burned almost painfully bright. “Judge Shadwell,” he said, with no shortage of irony in his voice. “I believe one of your men is being shockingly stubborn. Would you mind lecturing him for insubordination?”

Shadwell, a weary coward, couldn’t even look directly at Newton. He had to stare at the floor instead. “Captain, Archangel Gabriel’s authority is just as good as mine, if not better. If he commands you to do something, it is your legal and moral obligation to carry it out.”

“And,” Gabriel cut in. “As you are new, I shall remind you of who sanctions and performs executions in this place.” He pointed at himself. “ _So._ I would advise you hold your tongue.”

A look of pure, unadulterated horror passed Newton’s face, like something very important had been revealed to him. He looked to his men for support, but found none in the quiet shuffle of their feet. Gabriel couldn’t help but marvel at their meekness. How pathetic. Then, Newton bowed his head. “Yes, Your Holiness. Should we move on?” 

Gabriel nodded, witnessing for himself the sudden change in personality from gallant soldier to another pawn in the cosmic chess game of the universe. The next place was just an inn, run by a man with graying hair. Every room was meticulously searched, raided, combed over. Nothing. Of course, it didn’t matter in the long run, because Gabriel knew he would tear this place apart if only to find where _they_ were hiding. 

As they left, the inn in disarray behind them, somebody’s carpet _miraculously_ started burning. The demon would see, he had to. And he would come, running away from the danger and right into capture. At least, that was supposed to happen. 

“I don’t think this is working,” said one of the guards. When Gabriel looked at him, he quickly backtracked. “No, uh, I just mean this isn’t very efficient.”

Shadwell cut in for him. “What the lad means is that going through the houses one at a time isn’t the best way to go about searching the entire city. Perhaps there’s a faster way.” 

The Captain said nothing, only carried that same immutable expression of horror. 

Gabriel shrugged. “That’s alright. Demons are still pests after all. And what does one do with pests?” He surveyed the guards, all who had turned various shades of nauseated. Pity. They didn’t understand. His palms clapped together once, and the fire began to spread. “You flush them out.”

Better that the fire consume this human settlement than consume him, he reasoned. Better holy fire than hellfire. Better a few casualties than multiple lost souls. Better.

Everything would be better soon.

* * *

Newt couldn’t breathe. This city, the one he had just arrived in, the one he was sworn to protect, was burning. People fled their shops, screaming in panic. Dark smoke filled the sky filling Newt’s throat as surely as the guilt did. He had done this. Or he had allowed it, stood by as that tyrant of an Archangel did what he wished. Now, those that had put their faith in him were paying the price.

Looking over the crowd, Newt watched the mass of people running. A sudden blast of vertigo hit him, and he was afraid he might collapse on his feet. How had everything gone so terribly wrong? Then, he caught a glimpse of green. And then another. And then another. 

The witch, Anathema, was swerving in and out of houses, directing people. _Evacuation,_ Newt realized with a chill. She was evacuating them. He had never felt as happy, even as shame weighed on his heart as heavy as his armor. They trudged forward, and wherever Gabriel walked, a new fire would crop up. If there were any demons, they would be wise to vanish, because the angel looked absolutely furious.

Newt averted his eyes as another couple ran out, shouting. He wished he could block it all out. But in an attempt to hide his gaze, all he did was gain Anathema’s attention. Her face went pale, and her lips mouthed the word: _you._ Then, she started running towards him.

Newt didn’t know why they had met in the first place. All he knew was that he saw her in the streets with her illusions, and then again as she was running through the cathedral, and a third time in the middle of the night. And every single time, she had been nothing but altruistic. Her skirts flew as she ran towards the river, where the guards now stood, trying to block people from putting out the fires. Most of them had completely disconnected in their horror, torn between duty and ethics.

Anathema screeched to a halt in front of him, and although he might’ve been imagining it, a flicker of joy could be found in the way she looked at him. But then, it soon narrowed to an expression of pure disgust.

“You’re on _their_ side?” She demanded, hair flying in all directions with the wind as she gestured to Gabriel and the others.

Newt shook his head frantically. “It’s only for a little while, until I can figure out—”

“Stop excusing yourself, goddamnit! You’re just as guilty as the rest of them.” She paused to gesture to a building, the fire on the roof extinguishing, as if by magic. Others were put out as well, only for more to crop up. “You see what he’s done? Where is that _divine goodness_ his lot wax poetic on?”

Nausea curled in Newt’s gut. “I know,” he whispered. “But what can I do? The Judge won’t step in and Gabriel could smite me with a thought if he wanted to.”

For a second, Anathema’s face was completely blank. She blinked. Then it contorted into a look of pure fury. More than that, she looked _betrayed._ Which was, Newt realized with a sinking feeling, understandable, considering what was happening behind him. 

“ _No._ You can’t fumble your way out of this, Newt. I don’t care how nice you are. If you can abide this…” she shocked her head, backing away. “Then I can’t believe I ever thought well of you.”

Newt opened his mouth, maybe to reason with her, maybe to apologize, maybe to renounce everything he had ever worked for. But before he could, Gabriel cut in.

“Captain, is that the witch from earlier?” When Newt didn’t reply, Gabriel took that answer as a yes. “She might not be a demon, but she is a sorceress. Arrest her, now. And then stop the people trying to pour the river into buckets.”

Some brave individuals were rushing into the houses to pour large bucketfuls of water into the flames. Anathema looked at them and then at Newt, like she was ready to fight to the death. Which she was probably. This was her city, where she had lived all her life, and Newt was just the newcomer who couldn’t choose a side. His eyes skimmed the roiling water of the river as he faced Gabriel.

“Hey!” shouted Anathema before Newt could say anything. “You’re a tyrant. You’re cruel and heartless, and if all angels are like you then I hope Heaven crashes in on itself soon. And I hope that when you find the demons, they’ll—”

Anathema flew backward, just barely catching herself before she fell into the river. Gabriel strode forward, reaching for something in thin air. A flaming sword appeared in his hand, but before he could strike, Newt made his choice.

He was done letting those like Gabriel rule.

“No,” said Newt, stepping in front of Gabriel. “I won’t let you do this.”

Gabriel smiled, flames of his sword arcing even higher than before. All Newt saw was Anathema shouting his name before the sword struck him, cutting through metal, fabric, and skin alike. Cold pain flooded his veins. An invisible force shoved him aside, and then all he felt was darkness.

A strangled sound left Newt as he was thrown back, hitting the water with a splash as his armor burned away. The river swallowed him whole, ready to take his unconscious body and use it to feed its residents.

* * *

Anathema made the choice before her mind could even realize what was happening.

She dove into the freezing water, reaching out for Newt. Buffeted on all sides by the currents, she forced her eyes to open, looking into the murky blue. A vague shape drifted down amongst the tall kelp, and she swam towards him, only barely illuminated by the fire still blazing on the surface. Her lungs started to ache just as she managed to grab onto him. The journey up was much tougher, as he was weighed down by his armor. 

_Damn it all._ Anathema was not going to die by drowning, and she was not going to let this be her legacy. Inhaled water saving enemy. Nope. So she grabbed onto Newt, unlatching his torn breastplate and arm-guards. The metal drifted to the riverbed and she kicked up to the surface, breaking the water with a gasp. The last remaining bit of her strength was used to swim to the riverbank obscured by foliage. 

Taking greedy breaths of air, Anathema pulled herself and Newt onto the muddied earth. She looked at the deep cut in his chest, the last bits of holy fire flickering out, turning his blood violet. And she sighed, watching smoke turn her city’s afternoon sky grey. Newt had risked everything—his job, his social standing, even his life—in order to protect it. That was enough to earn her loyalty.

She knew what she had to do.

* * *

“Gabriel!” Aziraphale found him by the riverbanks.

Running through the city as fast as his legs would carry him, he felt sick with horror at what had happened. And this wasn’t regular fire, either. He would’ve prayed for the safety of the demons, but he found the humans in much more danger. Somehow, he knew immediately who was responsible. Still reeling from what had been revealed to him in the Garden, he stumbled towards the Archangel and the guards surrounding him. Curiously enough, the Captain was gone.

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. “ _Aziraphale_ ? What are _you_ doing here?”

Aziraphale remembered that he wasn’t supposed to know anything about his earlier rebellion or it’s consequences. He let his eyes cast downwards, coaxing an uneven stammer to his voice. “I—I’m sorry. Uriel didn’t show and I saw the city and I, well, I saw it…”

“Burning.” A grin split his lips. “You can go ahead and say it. My own idea, really, to flush out those hiding.”

Aziraphale’s heart turned to lead in his chest and sunk down. Was this because of Crowley’s escape? While he was traipsing around underground, unspeakable horrors plagued this place, committed by someone they were supposed to trust. He might not have been a real angel, but surely there was something he could’ve done, some way to prevent _this._ “Oh,” was all he could choke out. 

“Don’t be so glum!” Gabriel clapped him on the back. “This is necessary, you see. I wouldn’t expect you to understand it, but still.”

“Why…” Aziraphale realized he already knew the answer. “Why wouldn’t I understand?” He felt dizzy beyond belief with terror. The weight of Crowley’s revelation already weighed heavily on him, and coupled with this, it was all too much. 

Gabriel laughed. “ _Hello._ Did a day here scramble your brain so badly? You’re an affront to Holiness, of course the Plan wouldn’t be revealed to you. Not to worry, I know that this is for the best.”

Aziraphale wasn’t supposed to feel hate, but it rose up in him nonetheless. Gabriel had taken everything, and he had _known_ and he had used it to manipulate Aziraphale. All this time, he had called Aziraphale all variants of useless, all while being completely aware of the reason why. 

Well. He wasn’t the only one who could manipulate.

Aziraphale drew his cloak tighter around himself, bringing his shoulders closer together, and staring down at the ground. When he spoke, it was with a soft plea. “I can track the demons myself, if you would like. Of course, everything you do is infallible, but perhaps it would be better to have someone they trust.” 

Gabriel raised an eyebrow. “And they trust you? Why would someone _Fallen_ believe you about anything?”

Aziraphale forced himself to look up. “Because I’m already so close to them. Monsters enjoy the company of other monsters.” The words left a bitter taste on his tongue, now that he knew they weren’t true. But he had to play the game. 

Gabriel mused on that statement. “Someone on the inside could catch all of them at once, I suppose…”

“With no further damage to the city.” Aziraphale hoped to God this would work. It had to, before any human got hurt. He wished he could still perform miracles, to fix the buildings, repair everything that had been broken. But all he had was his words. It wasn’t a bad thing to have. After all, the creation of the universe started with God’s Word. “But I can’t exactly stay on Earth if there isn’t one to speak of.”

Gabriel looked over the city. “Yes, yes, I suppose you’re right. Well, _I’m_ right, in any case, and I say that the people needed to be taught a lesson. Too much sin.”

“What better place to trap a demon than a place like this? It can’t turn to ash before I have a chance to investigate.” 

Gabriel regarded him suspiciously. “You’re rather eager to do this aren’t you?”

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale shrugged. “Perhaps it is my purpose here. Everything is part of the Divine Plan, isn’t it?” Maybe he was laying it on a little thick, but Gabriel nodded. 

“You don’t have a purpose,” he said coldly. “But doing my bidding is the closest you can get. And that includes capturing the demons.”

Aziraphale thought he would collapse with relief when he saw Gabriel clap his hands. All the fires went out. The wooden structures of the houses built back up, smoke vanishing as surely as the flecks of black. Even the humans appeared back in their houses. Just like that, everything rebuilt itself, the bread reverting back to dough in the oven, soap refilling itself in the mold, carpet threads weaving together once more. 

Everything was right again. Only it wasn’t. Because Aziraphale had seen a side of Gabriel never before revealed. And so had those affected by his attempted inferno. And even though everything was fixed, and Aziraphale had just become a double agent, nothing would ever be quite the same again. 

But now, he had a demon to catch, an Archangel to betray, and a past self to decipher. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THE FIRST HALF OF SPIRA SPERA IS DONE!!  
> You have no idea how much I appreciate the audience for this fic <3 <3 <3 I really hope you liked this chapter, please leave a comment!


	9. Amor

Everything may have started in the Garden, both in the case of original sin and current events, but it was far from over. 

Aziraphale would learn this fairly quickly a day into his new life as a double agent. The citizens of the city were slowly dealing with the aftermath of the fire, even if no physical evidence remained. Many had somehow convinced themselves they had suffered from a fever dream. But the skeptics, the ones who knew all about Gabriel and the rest, knew that wasn’t the case. Whispers had begun to build, slowly but surely, and Aziraphale watched the unrest simmer from where he was in the bell tower of the cathedral. Fewer people came to the services, he noted, either in defiance or from a lack of reverence. 

The Captain of the Guard had vanished, and in the absence of one, the guards aimlessly patrolled the streets, being controlled by the Judge, who Gabriel regarded with disdain. Despite the unsteadiness, everything had gone unusually silent. Also, Heaven was having a bit of a tiff over everything. The Archangels discussed things in private often, and rumors began to spread. Saniel and Neriah murmured their own thoughts on the matter to Aziraphale, on the roof of the cathedral. 

“...no idea what came over him,” said Neriah. “One moment the festival was on, the next, everything lights up. Good thing you put an end to it.”

Aziraphale nodded aimlessly. “Yes, good.”

“Is everything alright?” Saniel tilted her head.

He waved her away, instead looking up at where the stars burned in the sky. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a lot going on.” He still couldn’t wrap his mind around the fact that he used to be  _ normal.  _ And that he had given it all away, and was about to risk even more for that same cause. “I’m staying on Earth for a while, you know.”

Saniel’s jaw dropped. “You’re  _ what _ ?”

“ _Staying_?” gasped Neriah. “And you didn’t think to tell us?”

“I just did—” he was immediately swarmed with questions. 

“When, what, how?”

“ _ Why _ ?” Saniel flapped her wings, having to steady herself on Neriah’s shoulder. 

Aziraphale laughed. “Hold on. It’s really no big deal. After the fire,” he saw the Guardians’ faces darken. “I convinced Gabriel to reverse it, in exchange for me tracking down the demons.”

Neriah chewed the inside of her cheek. “Can you do that, though?”

“What do you mean?”

Saniel took a deep breath. “What we’re trying to say is don’t go too deep. Things are dangerous now, and I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Aziraphale smiled. “Everything will be just fine.” He tried to make himself believe it. But Saniel and Neriah weren’t the only ones who had doubts. Something was off about Gabriel too, although Aziraphale didn’t notice that at first. 

The Archangel was more reclusive, spending time on Earth only to pray. It was a curious thing, seeing him so absorbed in the human hymns he had previously looked down upon. But it wasn’t only that—his whole demeanor had altered. Once, he even muttered to Aziraphale how his mind was under attack.

“Nothing is safe from this…” he trailed off, pacing, leaving the rest unsaid.

Aziraphale tilted his head. He needed to act like Gabriel expected him to, which meant putting all thoughts of Crowley and secret, traitorous plans out of the forefront of his consciousness. If Gabriel sensed temptation, it would all be over. Thankfully, Gabriel was too distracted to even concentrate on others.

“Would you like for me to check your wings?”

Gabriel turned on him with a snarl. “I don’t need anything checked. I’m an  _ Archangel. _ ” He sniffed. “And you’re the one with faulty wings.”

Before, Aziraphale would’ve nodded meekly and echoed him. Now, he had to bite his tongue to keep from saying that he knew Gabriel was the one who did this to him. He simply shrugged, trying to look put out. Instead, he looked towards the next time he would be able to see Crowley. They had planned a rendezvous in the Garden at dusk. 

It was convenient, staying on Earth. Aziraphale didn’t have to rely on anybody to get to where he needed to. And right now, that was a place many would consider on the wrong side of town. Slipping out of the cathedral, he made his way down the streets, cloak billowing out behind him. A heavy sort of energy had settled over the place, the stillness almost as suffocating as the fire itself. He kept moving, trying to remember where the pub was. No use in asking direction from the guards, who had also gone rather quiet, all jovial pride at their position vanishing. 

Aziraphale wished he could make his wings disappear. Not because he was particularly ashamed on them—he wasn’t, after finding out the reason behind feathers—but because anyone associated with angels had a new layer of suspicion cast on them. He held his cloak closer as he made the turn to stand in front of the Garden of Eden. Not for the first time, he considered the irony with a small smile. The most beautiful place, also the one that caused the worst things in the long run. The origin of knowledge, housing those who dared to seek it apart from God. 

Aziraphale opened the door with Crowley’s hair ribbon, which he never really did end up returning. It was nice, having it around, like a figment of the demon’s presence when Aziraphale needed to remember him. Also, it worked as a fantastic key. Not for the first time, he wondered about the Almighty. Although nobody would admit it, all of Heaven knew that He had gone almost fully silent, leaving the Archangels to rule in His wake. Would God approve of this plan? He had to, what with the forgiveness and remission of sins deal. 

Aziraphale leaned down to push the rug aside and open the trapdoor, only to jump back to keep from being hit in the face when it swung up. He made eye-contact with Crowley, who was currently climbing out. 

“Angel, you came back!”

Aziraphale smiled, heart skipping a beat. He didn’t know how to act after the kiss. When it happened, he wasn’t thinking, just moving forward. Now, he decided to put it out of his mind. No use in hanging onto something that might not even be continued. “I did.”

“The fire….” Crowley looked away. Aziraphale noticed that his eyelids were lined with kohl and his skin shimmered with a sheen of dark powder. Was he leaving to dance, then? “What happened?”

Aziraphale immediately wanted to soothe the guilt away. “Everything is back to normal, I think. I spoke to Gabriel and, well, I’ll have to tell you later.”

Crowley beamed. “Does that mean you’re going to see me perform? That’s where I’m going.” He swung the trapdoor closed, covering it with a brush of his foot. 

“You look nice,” Aziraphale offered, moving to open the door for him. “Are you sure it’s safe, though?”

“‘Course. Why wouldn’t it be?”

“Just be careful. Gabriel is on high lookout for you.”

Crowley chuckled, swinging an arm around Aziraphale’s shoulders. “Not to worry, I have a wonderfully brave angel to protect me. Oh, you’re gonna love this show. It’s something new but I have high hopes for it.”

Aziraphale glanced up at the cloudy sky, fading to darkness the same color as Crowley’s hair. “It’s rather dark right now.”

Crowley winked. “It has to be, for this kind of dance. You’ll ssssee.” The hiss bled into his voice, making it even more charming.

They walked, rather brazenly, in the middle of the streets. Aziraphale couldn’t help but spare furtive glances around, to make sure there were no guards in sight. Crowley caught him looking. “What issss it?”

“Just a bit worried about getting caught,” Aziraphale smiled reassuringly at him, fighting with the urge to take his hand. 

“M’not a prostitute, angel. The law doesn’t come down so hard on those like me.” Crowley shrugged. “Curfew’s not for another hour or so, and by then, nobody who’s ready to turn in a demon will be out.”

Aziraphale’s nerves were slightly lessened. To the outside world, they were just two men walking down the street; a slender dancer and his rather hunchbacked friend. Still, his heart didn’t quite slow down until he and Crowley reached their destination, in the more run-down side of the city. Stands with benches rose about four rows in every direction, circling a dusty pit. Crowley brought Aziraphale up to one of the seats closer to the ground, told him to order something from one of the small stands if he wanted.

“Say you’re with Anthony.” Then, he was off, vanishing into a caravan covered in intricate tapestries. As night fell, Aziraphale got some roasted almonds, bringing the bag up to his nose and inhaling the spicy sweetness. It reminded him of Crowley, in a strange way. In the performance space, a few singers led the crowd that had amassed in a cheer. Aziraphale could hardly believe this world existed, away from the confines of the rest of the world and Heaven too. Suddenly, everybody went quiet, the singers retreating. 

A voice announced the night’s performer. “ _ A fire dance by Anthony J. Crowley.”  _ Suddenly, Aziraphale understood.

The entire stands were silent, as if the darkness was holding its breath, keeping all oxygen away from a fire that had not yet appeared. Then, something sparked, a flicker of golden flame that quickly spread until a silhouette appeared, holding two flaming hoops in front of it. The sight of Crowley, even shrouded in shadow as he was, made Aziraphale’s breath catch in his lungs. This time, Crowley was performing with pants of specially treated leather, hair tied into a tight bun. His eyes shone even brighter than the blazing circles in his hands. 

Then he tossed each hoop in the air and began to move, leaping into the air, turning in an elegant arc. His limbs cut a path through the shadow before he caught the fiery rings and spun them on each arm. Only his body was illuminated, and it had to have been some sort of miracle how he hadn’t burned yet. But he kept moving, body in tune with the almost choir-like echoes of the singers. But there was a sort of harshness to his gestures, screaming out to those watching:  _ don’t underestimate me.  _

The hoops reached Crowley’s shoulders, and as he executed a perfect jump, he looped them both around his neck. As he spun dizzyingly on his toes, they dropped to his waist. The crowd cheered. Save for the lithe twisting of his arms and legs and the almost serpentine shifts of his hips, the rest of Crowley’s body was perfectly still. It was almost an illusion, watching the hoops revolve around him, simply leaving traces of light around his skin, illuminating the wild grin pulling at his lips.

Crowley jumped, catching the hoops below him and swinging them up before they could touch the ground. He tossed them over his head, catching them in each hand as he continued his impossibly graceful leaps. The singing reached a crescendo, and in that moment, he could’ve truly been flying, a comet of fire falling towards Earth. The hoops, thrown up at just the right angle, ended up settling back down on Crowley’s body—one looped around his chest and the other on his waist. His arms waved through the air, propelling his turns. 

The singing stopped. Crowley bowed, still keeping the hoops on him. The crowd erupted in applause. Aziraphale rose out of his seat, cheering Crowley on. The rings fell to the ground, fire extinguishing. The total darkness lasted only a few moments, because the torches surrounding the stands suddenly lit up. People began to disperse, tossing various coins into bags hanging by the benches. 

Aziraphale made his way to Crowley. “That was…” he suddenly forgot how to speak. “Wow.” 

Crowley glowed under the praise. “Thank you.” He tried to run a hand through his hair, only to remember it was tied back. “Something new, but I enjoyed it.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little insensitive?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow at the dwindling sparks on the ground. 

Crowley grinned. “They don’t want to accept that it was real. Making it a spectacle just separates them from the tragedy.”

“And that’s okay?”

He shrugged. “Not really, but it helps them cope.” 

Aziraphale couldn’t exactly argue with that. He nodded towards the bags currently filling up with coins from the audience. “What are you going to do with those?”

Crowley suddenly averted his eyes. “Well, er, the money will be evenly distributed in the pockets of those who need them. Children get double.” He snapped his fingers and the coins vanished, presumably on their way to their new owners. “There.” He set off walking, miracling his sash to wrap around his shoulders. Outside of dancing, he seemed very averse to revealing his body. 

Aziraphale caught up to him fairly quickly, unable to stifle his broad smile. “How  _ nice  _ of you.”

“Not nice,” Crowley grumbled.

Aziraphale stood up on his toes to whisper into Crowley’s ear. “ _ Sweet _ .”

“Not sweet.” 

“ _ Kind. _ ”

Crowley hissed, wings flapping around him in a rush of feathers before vanishing once more. Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh. Despite the darkness, he thought he could see the slightest hint of a blush on Crowley’s cheeks. A stray curl had fallen in front of Crowley’s eyes, and he reached up to brush it away. 

“Say, how’d you end up stopping the fire?” Crowley paused, eyebrows furrowing. “I don’t believe you ever told me.”

“Oh. Well, it’s a rather long story.” 

Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hand with a smile. “Well you can tell me all about it over drinks. You do like drinks, right?”

Aziraphale nodded. His heart fluttered in his chest, and he found that he had never been happier. Not only because he was finally on Earth, but because he was there with Crowley. And he would do anything to keep this feeling, the floaty giddiness that overtook him. He’d have to ask Saniel about what that meant. But right now, he let Crowley pull him along through the midnight city.

* * *

The very next day, they went to lunch together. More accurately, they took up residence in a small orchard gazebo and proceeded to order a plate of various fruits and cheeses. Placated by the knowledge that nobody would see them past the flowering bushes, Aziraphale relaxed, allowing himself to bask in Crowley’s pretense and sample the food. Crowley lounged on the couch next to Aziraphale—almost serpentlike, if serpents could dress in loose, black satin that shifted every time he moved, and smile even brighter than the sun beaming above them. He looked like a picture straight out of an ancient painting. 

“This one’s scrumptious,” said Aziraphale, holding up a piece of goat’s cheese. Although Crowley tended not to partake, he would occasionally try a bite at Aziraphale’s behest. This time, he simply stared through lidded eyes, a lazy smile spreading over his face. 

“Thought you would enjoy that, angel.” His slender fingers wrapped around Aziraphale’s wrist, guiding the cheese back towards his mouth. “But don’t worry about me. I’m quite alright like this.”

Aziraphale barely had to chew, it all but melted on his tongue. “Well, then talk about something. I do enjoy hearing you talk.”

Crowley’s fangs shone when he grinned. “Oh, me too.” 

Aziraphale swatted him on the arm. “I’m serious.” 

“Yeah, yeah. I know you are.” He twisted his neck in order to smell a yellow hibiscus blossom, although his eyes never left Aziraphale. Plucking the flower from its place, he toyed with it absentmindedly. “Y’know everyone likes to blame anything bad that happens on us. Demons, I mean.”

Aziraphale picked at the skin of a grape before popping it in his mouth. “Well, you did create original sin.” 

“That doesn’t mean I created  _ murder  _ or...or  _ hatred,  _ or  _ torture  _ or any of those terrible things humans come up with. That was all them, by the way. All I did was give them knowledge. Didn’t know they would use that knowledge to steal the flaming sword right from under the angel’s nose.” He sat back in a huff. “And don’t get me started on how they treat people, their own kind, who are simply  _ different  _ from them. I mean, I get off easy because people like watching my type of deviant. But witches, gypsies, others? It’s horrific. And they do it in the name of  _ God,  _ like hatred is the Almighty’s will instead of love.” 

Aziraphale listened in rapt attention. While Gabriel always rambled about sin and cleansing and how terrible humanity was, Crowley had a very different perspective. Fascination with their ingenuity, coupled with distaste at the havoc they wreaked. Optimism, the deep-seated knowledge that things could get better. “Does it ever bother you? Getting off easy, I mean.”

Crowley shrugged. “It sucks. And I help out where I can. But the same guardsmen that like to call me  _ ‘shameless’ _ in the street always end up in the audience. Kinda like church. The priests get up on their stands and preach all they want about judgment and righteous hate, but at the end of the day, they’re in Confession too.”

“I’ve never thought about it that way.” 

“What, you thought God was some sort of judge, jury, and executioner that punished you for the great crime of forgiveness? Nah, s’bullshit. Whatever happened wasn’t your fault, nor was it Almighty-endorsed in any way.” Crowley leaned forward, breath ghosting on Aziraphale’s cheek as he tucked the hibiscus behind his ear. “Absolutely angelic,” he murmured, reaching towards the tray and picking up some sort of berry. He pressed it up to Aziraphale’s lips. 

Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat, and he leaned forward to capture the berry with his teeth. He wanted to say something, but found himself at a loss for words. He wanted Crowley to kiss him, more than anything, so badly that his chest ached with it. But they hadn’t spoken about what happened in the tunnel and Aziraphale started to think they never would.

“I’ve never met anyone like you,” he said, taking the flower from his ear and slipping the stem into one of Crowley’s braids. 

Crowley laughed. “I’m a demon, I don’t wear  _ flowerssss  _ in my hair.” 

His pupils were shockingly black against a backdrop of lamplight yellow. Aziraphale once read a book of legends. It said never to look a dragon in the eyes, for you would fall prey to its hypnosis. He felt like that now, unable to tear his gaze away from the sharp angles of Crowley’s face, the cupid’s bow of his lips, the curve of his neck. 

“I don’t understand it,” he said, looking out towards the orchard. 

Crowley settled back down next to him, resting his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Hm?”

“Why you Fell in the first place. I mean, you think so much about everything, about what God’s really planning, about humanity, about divine Love.”

A bitter chuckle left Crowley. “That’s just the thing, angel. I thought too much, and my questions started to border the line of blasphemy. And then I was hurtling into a pool of boiling sulfur.” He sighed, a bit dramatically. “Doesn’t matter, I guess. You know I used to be called Crawley?”

“ _ Crawley? _ ”

Crowley shuddered. “Ngk. Don’t say that.”

“Sorry. Why’d you change it?”

“A bit too squirming-at-your-feet-ish. Know I’m a snake, but that doesn’t mean I have to be called one too. It’s like if you were named...oh, I don’t know, Dovey.”

Aziraphale couldn’t help but laugh. “ _ Dovey?” _

Sneaking a glance at Crowley’s face revealed his cheeks to be bright red. “Ssssh...shut up. Just an example.”

Aziraphale was, once again, struck by the urge to pull Crowley closer by the shirt and kiss him senseless. To find out how well his lips would take to the column of Crowley’s throat. But instead of doing any of that, he rose from the couch, turning to look at Crowley, who took the opportunity to stretch out as far as he could on his stomach. 

“Teach me how to dance.”

“Um.” Crowley turned his head to the side, the flower still in his hair. “What?”

Aziraphale folded his arms over his chest. “I said—”

“No, I heard you.” Crowley raised an eyebrow. “The better question is,  _ why _ ?”

“Because you know how to dance and I don’t. Ergo, you have to teach me.” Also, he wanted to be as close to Crowley as possible. That was probably a factor. “Come on,  _ Snakey. _ ”

Crowley groaned, letting himself be pulled to his feet. “Literally never call me that again, angel.” 

Aziraphale walked them outside the gazebo, under the noonday sun. Crowley’s hands settled over his waist. He smiled. Even if humanity was mostly bad, even if Heaven’s word had been twisted so terribly not even its own angels could understand, even if there was no hope, there would always be this moment. Trapped in time, a serpent and a dove dancing. 

Just a little piece of infinity within the Ineffable plan.

* * *

“Aziraphale?”

“Yes?”

“Do you know what love is?” Saniel examined her nails, pushing her knees up to her chest as she leaned on the bookshelf of the bell tower. She scoffed. “Stupid question, I know. We’re angels, we’re supposed to love all of Creation. But still.”

Aziraphale already knew the answer before he finished speaking. “Is it Neriah?”

Saniel nodded. “That’s not divine love. Don’t know what to call it, truth be told.”

“Well,” Aziraphale’s only lessons on love had come from Gabriel. But he had also read very many books and therefore knew a bit more about love than the average angel. “It’s when you’d do anything for somebody, when their happiness makes you happy, when you want to give them everything you have and more. I think.”

Saniel laughed. “There was a witch, a while ago, at the festival, that told me I was in love with Neriah. I didn’t know what that meant. I love her, of course, like I love every stone and every icon in this cathedral. Like I have to love everything. But how I feel for you or for the birds isn’t what I feel for her.”

“Do you ever think demons have it simpler?”

Saniel’s eyes went wide. “Well, they have to hate everything. So maybe love would be easier to spot.”

Aziraphale frowned. That didn’t match up with Crowley, who—while rather nonchalant about many things—was not hateful by any chance. They had been meeting for a week now, exchanging the most wonderful conversation and the occasional hand-holding. Crowley also took him out once on what he called  _ a dinner date,  _ and Aziraphale considered himself positively charmed. “Maybe.”

“How do you even know if you love anyone? I like to kiss her, sure, and spend time with her. And sometimes I think it’d all be better if we were human.” She fell back against the shelf with a sigh. “Oh, I’m sorry for all the questions. You wouldn’t know either, would you?” 

Aziraphale shook his head, murmuring an apology. “I really do have to be off soon. But I can’t tell you how to feel. 

Perhaps you could talk to her about it?”

“The witch said  _ madly  _ in love.”

He couldn’t help but smile. “Then maybe the witch was right.” Even as he spoke, his mind was turning over how he defined love and how it matched up with Crowley. It seemed ridiculous...and yet...

Aziraphale tried not to dwell on it. After all, he did have a demon to visit.

* * *

“Angel!” Crowley’s face lit up as soon as he saw Aziraphale approaching. He enveloped Aziraphale in a tight embrace, his lilac scent familiar and comforting. “I have a place to show you. Come with?” 

How could Aziraphale refuse? He wrapped his arms around Crowley’s waist and let him fly off, only pausing to scoop up a multicolored blanket before continuing on, out of the main cavern and into a network of winding tunnels that gave Aziraphale a headache even thinking about. They walked most of the way in silence, fingers occasionally brushing, until Crowley grabbed Aziraphale’s hand and held onto it resolutely. When they reached a dead end, Crowley flew them up to an alcove, carved into the stone. A snap of his fingers later, and a lit candle appeared on the ledge.

They sat on the blanket—Crowley, with his wings extended; Aziraphale with his cloak unclasped. It was strange to be so comfortable with his feathers, but Aziraphale didn’t feel a single hint of fear. He had only known Crowley for about a week, and yet he felt more comfortable with him than anyone else. 

“Hey?” The sound of Crowley’s voice snapped Aziraphale from his thoughts. “Would you mind...er...grooming my wings?”

Aziraphale momentarily forgot how to speak. “Ngk?”

“There’s ssssome dirt and sssstuff in the featherssss and I can’t quite reach it.” Crowley suddenly looked very deeply embarrassed, looking away as his forked tongue caught on the sibilants. “Don’t have to, of course. Just don’t know who elsssse I would asssk, and I—”

“I’ll do it,” Aziraphale blurted. He’d never touched anybody’s wings. There simply wasn’t a reason to. He replayed his conversation with Saniel, even as he tried to put it away for later. This was already intimate enough, even more so than their quick kisses. Crowley shuffled around to face the stone of the cave, fidgeting with his hands.

Aziraphale let his fingers run along the tips of Crowley’s primaries, from the sturdiest feathers to the softer downy ones near the base of his spine. The flickering light of the candle seemed to cast Crowley’s skin in a warm, ethereal glow, much like the tiger’s eye gemstones Aziraphale often saw people wearing. The pads of his fingers caught on the grains, and he found himself entranced by how they glowed iridescent in the semidarkness. 

“Beautiful,” he whispered, without even realizing he was speaking aloud. He began his work, smoothing out feathers, gently dispersing the dirt caught between them. A few even came loose, and were discarded in a small pile. Crowley shivered, and Aziraphale wished he could see his face. “How does it feel?” Once, Aziraphale broke most rules of angel properity and asked Neriah to preen his wings. It was just as he suspected; they were numb. Crowley’s were the very opposite. 

“Bright,” said Crowley, voice tense. “Sharp.” And then, to soothe any doubts. “Good.”

Aziraphale buried his fingers in the soft downy feathers near the base, just to feel Crowley’s reaction in the form of a quiet hum. His job was done, technically. Everything was smoothed out and shining. But it was almost impossible to keep from running his hands over Crowley’s wings, with a hypnotized sort of wonder. Since Crowley didn’t seem to be in any rush to turn back around, Aziraphale took the opportunity to touch his hair as well.

Threading his fingers through the curls, Aziraphale separated them into three parts and began to braid. This was a skill he had mostly gotten from Saniel, tying her hair back. Crowley’s was a bit more difficult, but so much more rewarding to see his ringlets curl around Aziraphale’s hands, only to spring into place. It wasn’t long before the braid was completed, and Aziraphale took out the ribbon he had meant to return a week ago but never did. He looped it around and tied a neat bow. 

“There,” he said, watching Crowley fold his wings back and allowing himself a final touch before they disappeared.

“Thanks,” Crowley chuckled. “Don’t you need my ribbon to get in the building?”

Aziraphale shook his head, then remembered Crowley couldn’t see him. “We will Ascend soon. I think I’ve figured out how to get up to Heaven. Once you can gather the demons, I will lead you up.” He felt lightheaded once he realized that this was it, what he had worked for before, and what he was risking everything for now. “Then we can be together as angels.”

“Yeah. Angels.” Something about Crowley sounded strange, but Aziraphale didn’t quite catch on. “Doubt your boss would like that very much.”

“He can’t exactly do much about it, now can he?” Aziraphale teased. “Anyway, I think his issue lies more with you than any hereditary war.”

“Hm?”

“I can’t sense it like another ethereal being would be able to, but I’m fairly sure he’s tempted.”

Crowley snorted. “Thought he was a bit tightly-wound when I spoke to him. By who, may I ask?”

Aziraphale paused. There was no way to explain this to Crowley easily, but he did deserve the truth. “By you, I believe.” Not much room for surprise, with Crowley’s lithe body and graceful movements and clever brain. No wonder Crowley’s official title was The First Tempter. But Crowley actually seemed shocked, bursting into laughter.

“...me?  _ Me _ ? Sorry,” he gasped out between sniggers. “Arch-bastard hates me more than anything.” Then, his laughter quieted. “Oh. You’re serious aren’t you?”

“I’m afraid I am.”

“Can I tell you a secret, angel?” 

Aziraphale’s heart skipped a beat. “Yes?”

“I’ve, uh, never actually tempted anybody.” Crowley chuckled, but it sounded so uncertain that Aziraphale had to pause. “There. What a demon I am, right? Not one, single, measly smidgeon of Lust. Dancing doesn’t count, it’s not meant to do anything. And, er...Eve was already a bit curious about the apple. Didn’t do much. So yeah, no tempting on my end. Heh.” 

“So the Gabriel thing…”

“I have no idea.” Crowley coughed. “Honestly.” 

Aziraphale took a deep breath. He was opening his mouth before he even decided what he was going to say. “I don’t think that’s true,” he whispered, slowly. Crowley jolted. Then, before he could overthink it, Aziraphale moved Crowley’s braid aside and pressed his lips to the back of his neck. “You’ve tempted  _ one _ .”

In the silence that followed, Aziraphale could feel his pulse rushing through his ears as he waited for some sort of response. Hopefully, the implication wouldn’t be missed. Crowley turned around, his eyes glowing with adoration. Without his hair obscuring his face, Aziraphale could see every emotion that crossed him

“Are you gonna kiss me or what?” Despite the brave words, he sounded hoarse with nerves. When Aziraphale leaned in, he found Crowley’s lips already parted, soft and welcoming. It was like a part of Aziraphale slotted into place and everything that was wrong with the universe became right once more. Crowley shifted his entire body around so that he could face Aziraphale, breaking away for only a fraction of a moment. 

Aziraphale’s fingers cradled Crowley’s jaw with easy tenderness, guiding them closer, like two clouds colliding. His other hand made its way to where Crowley’s wings met his back, skimming over the skin there. Crowley shivered, a quiet sound leaving him as he arched into the touch. For such a long time, Aziraphale never let himself want, too afraid of the divine retribution. But what could they do to him now? Condemn his love and cast him out? Because that was what he was feeling: love.

“I love you,” he said to Crowley as soon as he could talk properly. “Everything about you, from how you dance, to how you speak, to the look in your eyes when we pass a flower shop. I love your smile and your eyes and every tiny thing you say. I love how you call me angel, how you found me, even years later, even when I didn’t know who I was.” 

“I didn’t know I  _ could  _ love,” Crowley murmured, running his thumb over Aziraphale’s cheekbone. Their every breath mixed. 

“But you do?” 

“But I do. I love you, angel, so much it hurts sometimes, God help me.”

“Why does it hurt?”

“Because I’m everything evil and you’re everything good and I…” Crowley swallowed, looking away before meeting Aziraphale’s eyes. “I don’t want to ruin anything.”  
Aziraphale brought both of his hands to hold Crowley’s face. His emotions were so strong he thought he would cry. “You’re not evil at all. Not one bit, Crowley.”

Crowley’s gaze flickered to the candle illuminating their alcove. He hesitated for a brief second before snapping his fingers. The flame went out, and they were left in total darkness. They found each other by the beats of their hearts, the temperature of the air between them grew steadily warmer until there was no longer anything left separating them and they were pressed totally together. 

“Do you love me? I want to hear you say it.” Aziraphale’s words trembled as they left him. 

“Do I love you, angel of my life? My body, my blood, my damned soul are yours. I am yours and I love you.”

He whispered it like a prayer, and when Aziraphale said it back, murmured between a passionate kiss, all he could think about was Genesis. They were in a Garden now, as it was prophesied for Adam and Eve and everyone that had come after them. Despite all odds, they weren’t enemies. Their union was as blessed as the original one, maybe even more, considering the fact that they came before anything else in Creation. And then nothing else mattered except Crowley and Crowley’s newly-revealed skin and the fact that Crowley loved him. And Aziraphale loved him back. 

_ And the two shall become one flesh. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're in Act 2, babey!  
> Things are about to go very wrong very quickly, but in the meantime, have a chapter of entirely lovey-dovey (ha!) fluff.   
> On an unrelated note, my motivation to write has been ridiculously low, mostly because of the minimal response to this fic. But just know that I see every single regular commenter and I appreciate you all so much <3  
> I really hope you enjoyed this chapter, don't forget to tell me what you think!


	10. Sociis

Bodies were heavier than they appeared. Especially the body of a dying Captain.

Anathema all but dragged him through the woods, twigs and dry pieces of grass catching on their damp clothes. For all the chaos in the city, the woods were fairly silent, disturbed only by Anathema’s ragged breathing and the snapping of mossy branches as they forced on. The smell of damp dirt permeated the air, and where the canopy opened to the sky, only a dull grey filtered in. She prayed to a God she didn’t particularly like or trust, prayed that the forest would be alright and that the fire wouldn’t spread.

Because if that damned Archangel hurt even a single leaf, she would personally destroy Heaven, one cloud at a time. 

She didn’t know where she was going anymore. Disoriented and confused, she stumbled along, carrying Newt by the arms while the rest of his body was sprawled behind her. Where even was her cottage? There was no way to figure out proper directions, and the longer she lingered, the more she could hear the screams of people still in the city. It brought a fresh wave of hatred running through her. For the angels that were supposed to protect those they herded around like sheep, for the guard that stood by and did nothing, for the Judge who was even worse. 

Maybe that was why she had saved Newt. Anybody who stood up to the law was a friend, and anyone who got injured in the process was an obligation. She would have to heal him as quickly as possible and send him on his way. Yet the holy fire in his bloodstream made her think that it wouldn’t be quite so easy. She ducked to avoid branches, little shreds of bark getting caught in her hair as she forged onward. 

“Come on...where are you…” she muttered under her breath. Closing her eyes, she assumed the eyes of a squirrel, a few trees away. Surveying the scene, she saw nothing except the blazing rooftops of the buildings. No meadow, no pond, and certainly no willow tree to mark her land. Newt groaned, shifting around so that she could no longer hold onto him. “Not the time,” she gritted out, grabbing back onto him. Thankfully, most of the armor was gone. 

Then, she sensed it. Grass burning. A small herd of deer ran past them, tawny pelts only slightly visible. Anathema let out a scream of frustration. “No no  _ no. No! _ ” This was  _ her _ forest, and she had spent too much time protecting it for some purple-eyed bastard on a power trip to come along and wreck it. Steeling herself, she concentrated on where the fire was spreading. Slowly it began to recede, fizzling out when it hit the riverbank. The anger within her only fueled the spell, and she made sure that no matter what, the woods would remain unharmed.

And so they did. 

Anathema vowed that if she ever got her hands on the Archangel, she would hit him with a curse so strong not even God could reverse it. Newt would probably help her, considering what had happened. Even she couldn’t completely wrap her mind around it. The Captain of the Guard, disobeying his superiors and renouncing his purpose...for what? For her? For a sense of justice she had somehow instilled in him? That was why she needed to heal him: if he died, she wouldn’t be able to properly thank him. Yeah, that was it. Just a sense of duty.

Although Anathema wasn’t particularly concentrating, the forest seemed intent on expressing its gratitude. A green dragonfly’s vision came to her, showing her the meadow and her cottage, at the center. Then, it turned, and Anathema could see a rotting trunk. She snapped back into her own brain, and up ahead, the fallen tree was clearly visible. Hauling Newt up, she sprinted towards the log, bursting from the forest and into a clearing with a grin. 

This was her cottage: made up of clay bricks and a mossy roof, the chimney kept scrupulously clean, furniture always polished. Around it was a garden, filled with various herbs and flowers, and around that was a meadow. Off to the side was a small pond frequented by animals. A line of mushrooms had cropped up by the border between soft, green grass and rougher tree roots. She stepped over them, bypassing the protectional hexes cast. It was the best alarm possible; nobody could get in except for her and Miss Tracy.

Anathema had never brought anybody else to her home. It was strictly family, and even when she involved herself in dalliances, her lovers never expressed an interest in visiting a witch’s place. For the best, probably. There was a reason she had avoided detection from the guards for so long.

And now she was bringing one inside.

With a heaving sigh, she dumped Newt unceremoniously on the wooden floor after kicking the door open with a muddied boot. So much cleaning to be done after this. The guard didn’t react, save for making a sound of annoyance and curling in on himself. Crossing her arms, Anathema looked down at him with a frown. 

“So what the hell am I supposed to do with you, huh?” No response. “You ever thought about that, being a hero and getting rescued and dirtying up my floor?” Silence. “Of course you haven’t. You’re just a guard who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time and  _ oh  _ I must sound raving mad to be talking to myself.” She couldn’t help but laugh. What a situation she had gotten herself into.

Then she remembered Newt was dying and she probably needed to get to work in the healing department.

Kicking off her shoes, she unrolled a bamboo mat and moved Newt onto there instead. Without wasting time thinking about his modesty, she tore the rest of his shirt to examine the wound. Gabriel’s sword had left a deep cut, from right below his collarbone spanning horizontally to the top of his ribs. There wasn’t much blood at first, from the holy fire and then from the freezing water, but now, a sluggish streak of it washed across his torso. A thin sheen of sweat had also built on his forehead, and when Anathema checked, she found Newt feverish.

Wetting a washcloth, she drew it across his skin, wiping up the blood and hearing a quiet sizzle. So the divine energy was still in his bloodstream, then. She needed to get it out for the wound to properly heal. Hastily, she made for some charcoal. Her hands were completely steady as she drew intricate symbols on Newt’s palm, his throat, his heart. The dark lines smudged somewhat, but that didn’t stop the spell from working. Muttering under her breath, she racked her mind for a suitable curse. 

“ _Evil, live, live, evil._ May the sacred never find home within thee, for it shall be repelled by the curse in your blood. So it is spoken.” She drew her finger around the cut, the black powder streaking over his skin. Smoke poured from it, and Newt’s limbs began to tremble. Anathema held him still, hoping that she hadn’t just caused an issue worse than the current one. Even if she had, a blood disease would be worse than dying on the spot, which was growing increasingly more likely. 

Newt went still. The cut in his chest suddenly lit on fire, only to go out just as quickly. Anathema let out a deep breath of relief. The worst of it was over, and the wound was no more than a regular sword injury. All the divine shit had been hexed away, and hopefully her theory of neutralizing would work just as well on Newt as it had on Crowley. Further examination revealed that it was cauterized, the blood and tissue clotted solidly around the gash. 

She slumped back against her table with a sigh. Now the issue was preventing infection. And getting Newt to wake up. But that could wait. Right now, what she needed to do was go back into the city and figure out a way to reverse the effects of the fire. 

But as she left her home, the door still wide open, she realized that something was different. Frowning, she looked through the eyes of a dog, huddled in an alleyway. Everything was fine. Back to normal, as if nothing had happened at all. Anathema’s blood ran cold. Slowly, she backed away into her cottage, locked the door tightly, and cast another protective charm. She sank to the floor, mind racing.

It had been reversed, all by itself. Which meant either Gabriel changed his mind, or another angel stepped in.  _ Or perhaps a demon.  _ She shuddered at the thought of Crowley becoming a captive once more. Anathema wasn’t stupid by a long shot. So when she deduced that the fire had started directly after the escape, she also deduced that Gabriel must’ve been looking for the demon. And maybe for her. Even if that wasn’t the case, everyone would be on high alert. 

So it was very good that Anathema had hidden herself away so well. Because right now that was all she needed to do. Lay low, give Newt time to recover, and formulate a concrete plan to help Crowley. 

Once Anathema had properly washed up and slipped into something not completely covered in charcoal and dirt, she changed Newt out of his clothes and into some pants she had lying around in a spare drawer. She moved Newt over to her own bed, then went to mixing a poultice. The main goal was to prevent an infection, but since her ingredients were rather limited, she made do. From her herb garden she got dead nettle, common plantain, and meadow sweet. There was honey and garlic in her cabinets as well.

She was in the middle of grinding up the herbs with mortar and pestle when the truth hit her. “Of course!” she exclaimed out loud. Her prophecy, the one about the river. It was all making sense. The river had spat up her opponent, that had to be Newt, and… 

She suddenly decided not to think about the rest of the prophecy as she poured the green mixture into the honey and added slivered garlic. Newt wasn’t charming, she thought, glancing at the man lying prone, the slightest bits of drool gathering at the corners of his mouth. And he certainly wasn’t  _ her  _ charmer. No, Agnes had to have been mistaken. Anathema took small strips of cloth and soaked them in the mixture, walking over to Newt and laying them on his chest. 

There. That should ward off infection well enough.

Anathema retrieved her book, sitting down by the bed, fully intending to pull an all-nighter and try to decipher the prophecies, which were becoming clearer by the minute. It wasn’t long before the words started to swim before her eyes, and she got up to change Newt’s wound dressings. Slouching back on the floor, she closed her eyes. Exhaustion found her before anything else could. Anathema went to the chair with a cushion, wrapped a blanket around herself, and fell asleep. She could take care of everything else tomorrow. Her last thought was an acknowledgement that maybe, just maybe, Newt actually a chap worth saving. 

Hopefully she wouldn’t end up regretting it.

* * *

Anathema awoke right after Newt did, with only a minimal amount of grumbling. She had only a moment to register the fact that he was awake as well, before he rolled off the bed and promptly fell on her. 

“ _ Hey!”  _ She shoved him away. “I get that you’re injured but get  _ off _ of me.” 

Newt regarded her, bewildered. He patted his chest, most likely feeling the bandages underneath. Then, he realized where he was. “What the hell? What is this?”

Anathema rolled her eyes. “ _ This  _ is me saving your life, stupid.” 

“I’m not stupid….where am I?”

“My cottage.”

“You have a…” he trailed off, looking around. “Of course you do.”

Anathema didn’t quite know what to say to that. “The fire was extinguished, by the way. Nobody was harmed. And the buildings don’t appear to be burnt.”

Newt nodded. “And the Archangel?” To his credit, he looked very angry, which only made Anathema like him more.   
“No idea. But I’m willing to bet that you’re out of a job, assuming that your boss doesn’t think you’re dead.”

Instead of protesting or asking any more questions, Newt just sat back and nodded. “Thank you. For saving me, I mean.”

“No problem.” Anathema thought of how ridiculous this whole situation was—a witch and a guardsman sitting on the floor, talking like friends. A slightly hysterical laugh left her. Ignoring the weird look Newt sent her way, she fumbled for Anges’ book. “Here, look.” She opened it to a page she had bookmarked. He squinted at it for a few moments before handing it back to her.

“No glasses,” he said with a shrug. “Also, my head feels like it’s getting split open. Don’t suppose you have any potions for that?” 

“Yeah. I need the eye of newt.” Anathema snarked, heaving a sigh as she pushed herself up off the floor. She could normally come up with something more creative, but on account of not wanting to hear any more jokes from Newt, she went and got the willow bark she was saving up. It was supposed to be an extract of sorts, but a little bit of it wouldn’t be missed. She tossed it to Newt. “Chew this.” 

Then she picked up the book. “Mind you, this is a perfectly accurate prophecy passed on to me from my mother. ‘The riv'r shall spiteth up thy opponent…’” She stopped reading. 

“Is that it?”

Anathema slammed the book closed. “Yep. Nothing else.”

Newt didn’t seem convinced. “Didn’t seem like nothing.” He reached for her face. “Here, let me borrow your glasses.” Before Anathema could even shriek a protest, he had plucked them off her nose and grabbed the book from her lap. Flipping through the pages, he leaned in to read it. “Thy opponent, thy  _ charm'r. Charmer?  _ Does that mean what I think it does?”

Anathema yanked the book away, standing abruptly. “No. Probably doesn’t even refer to you.”

Newt grinned up at her with a mouthful of willow bark. “Then why didn’t you read it?”

She scowled. “Wasn’t relevant.”

“Why’d you save me?” 

“Moral obligation.”

“Mhm.” His smug expression only grew. “And why am I still here, in your top secret cottage, in clothes that don’t belong to me, waking up in a bed that isn’t mine,  _ shirtless _ ?

Anathema spluttered, cheeks going red. “Of course it sounds bad when you put it  _ that  _ way.” She spent another few moments getting increasingly more flustered until she simply threw her hands in the air. “Okay, look. I saved you because I liked how you stood up to Gabriel. You’re still here because I’m not totally heartless and—sue me, I don’t want to get arrested when I step out.” She left the room, grabbing a navy-blue button up and throwing it at Newt. “I do still have to change your bandages, so don’t put that on yet.”

“Not helping your case,” he called as she unwound the now-dry fabric strips and went to exchange them for fresh ones. The wound didn’t look red or swollen, but she would have to keep an eye out for infection just in case. Newt wrinkled his nose. “That smells terrible.”

“Yeah, well.” Anathema tied the cheesecloth. “It’s what’s going to keep you alive. You think city doctors can do this?”

Newt shrugged the shirt on his shoulders. “Point taken.” He moved to sit up on the bed, and Anathema joined him. “Where’d you get the clothes?” He raised an eyebrow, gesturing to the button-up and pants. Probably part of a more elaborate suit, and definitely not something that she would have use for. 

Anathema cracked a smile. “One of my old lovers left it behind, either out of spite or forgetfulness, I don’t know.”

Newt snorted. “Some lover, if he had clothes like this.” The linen of the shirt was soft, and the buttons were elaborately carved and polished. 

“ _ ‘She,’  _ actually.” Anathema relished in the way Newt’s eyes widened, face contorting like he had just eaten a lemon. It wasn’t exactly unheard of—some may even call in commonplace in the city—but Newt was from a different part, and the battleground wasn’t exactly forgiving to code-violators, regardless of the participants’ gender. But after sputtering for a moment, he regained his composure.

“My aunt was the same way,” he said. “And there were a few men in my camp as well, I suppose. Only women for you, then?” 

Anathema had to look away to hide her smirk. “Not only.”

“Ah.” Newt coughed. 

Anathema tried to put away the warm feeling in her heart when he smiled at her, cracking a joke about how she was a ministering angel at his bedside. She corrected him,  _ ‘my bedside, actually,’  _ but her mind was far away, trying to decipher a strange feeling that only grew the more they interacted. It was annoying. Although it wasn’t. And she didn’t know what it meant. Except she did. 

That was the worst part of all, being completely aware that a few chance meetings, a fateful rescue, and then a couple of days later was all it took to make Anathema fall back into old patterns of getting attached to people far too quickly. And this was worse because it was a  _ guardsman  _ and he was too sweet and she was too fond of him to even consider that soon, when he was patched up, he would leave. 

“Hey, listen,” she said, suddenly forgetting her words when he looked at her. “I, well. I might need your help with something.”

Newt raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t know there was a price for medicine.”

“That’s not—” She shook her head. “—Not what I mean. You can say no of course. I just...the prophecies all point to this, and it might be useful to have some help.”

“Didn’t know you ever needed help,” Newt joked, but his expression quickly turned serious. “What is it?”

Anathema told him everything, from the angels’ strange behavior at the Jeweled Parade, to the ones she followed into the cathedral, to the snake-eyed demon she had met while temporarily imprisoned. And then the Garden of Eden, ironically named, that she couldn’t quite access. “What I’m trying to say is that  _ something  _ is happening. Crowley told me… that the demons want to attain  _ Heaven.  _ He thinks that somehow it’s possible for them to be forgiven, to rise up and become angels. I don’t know how that’s possible but there are other prophecies that match up with what Agnes is telling me. Like ‘the serpent be thy friend.’ That has to be Crowley, right?

Newt frowned. “Are you sure you can trust a demon?” 

“You’re trusting a witch,” she retorted. 

“Touche. But, even then, how are you supposed to help? This entire conflict seems…” he waved his hands. “Supernatural, to say the least. Meddling might make things worse.” 

Anathema fiddled with the rings on her fingers. How could she explain this to someone who had only ever followed the rules? “Look, it’s not something you would understand. You always had these structured laws and patterns and things to follow. I’ve only had the guidance of my mother and this book. My entire life’s purpose is to prepare for when I need to use the future to my advantage. Meeting the demon, that’s a sign that everything is starting to happen. I just need to figure out my place in all of this.”

Newt stayed silent for a long time, looking up at the rafters of the ceiling. “I was supposed to be a merchant, you know.”

“Huh?”

“I was a clerk’s apprentice. Terrible with numbers and the like, broke everything I used, but I still loved it. Then my father left and sister died and I needed to join the war.” He chuckled. “Blind luck that I ended up leading a battalion and then got promoted here. So no, I haven’t always had  _ ‘things to follow. _ ’ I understand needing that purpose. So I’ll help.”

“You will?” Anathema hadn’t quite expected that. She was only thinking of a way to keep in communication with him after this all died down and the injury was nothing more than a scar. 

“Yeah, however I can,” Newt gave her the same endearingly lopsided grin. “Anything for the witch that saved me.”

She rose from the bed. “I’ll go make some tea. You still need to get your strength up.” No use in telling him that he might have a blood curse. Not yet, anyway. But before she could take a step forward, he caught her by the wrist.

“Hey.” Newt’s voice was surprisingly gentle. “Thank you. For everything.”

Anathema stared at him, and then softened. “You’re welcome.”

Newt raised her hand to his lips and kissed it. She couldn’t help but smile all the way to the kitchen.  _ Charmer, indeed. _

* * *

Out of everything Anathema expected when she opened the door a few days later, a sharp-eyed angel was not one of them. 

She fidgeted with the fabric of her white sleeves on the doorstep, perking up immediately when she saw Anathema. It should’ve been impossible for her to get through the warning system, much less approach the cottage, but she had somehow done just that. Yet she didn’t seem interested in harming her, or at least, turning her in. “Hey,” she said. “Sorry for popping by unannounced, I just had a few questions.” 

Newt was outside, roaming around the meadow under strict instructions to gather herbs. He had been healing surprisingly well, and aside from a scare with a fever, everything had been going smoothly. Anathema saw nothing wrong with inviting the angel in even if it was just for a quick chat. Maybe she could even gather more information. She stepped aside with a small smile. 

“What do you need help with?” Anathema suddenly remembered her manners. “And what’s your name?”

The angel looked shocked, like nobody had ever asked her before. “Neriah.” A blonde strand of hair fell in her face, and she brushed it away. “You remember me from the parade, right?” 

Anathema nodded. It had only been a passing discussion, but she recalled it now. “You were with another angel. Sanny, right?”

Neriah giggled. “Saniel. But yes. You said….” she trailed off, unsure of how to finish the sentence.

“That she was in love with you?” Anathema raised an eyebrow. An angel of the Lord had come to her, not because of some great apocalypse or divine destiny, but for  _ relationship advice.  _ The last time an angel had spoken directly to a human, it had resulted in a rather complicated story about an unplanned pregnancy, a manger, and a crucifixion. 

“ _ Madly  _ in love, you said.”

The corner of Anathema’s mouth turned upwards. “Yes.” 

Neriah persisted. “And was that true?”

“I can sense auras, the energy and general emotions of a person or being around me. And your friends’ aura radiated pure adoration.” 

“Oh.” 

“Do you love her too?”

Neriah shrugged. “I think I do. But I don’t know what love is, in the mortal sense.” Then she turned to look at Anathema expectantly. 

Anathema breathed a nervous laugh. “Look, I can’t really help you there. I’m not the master of knowing about that stuff.” Neriah looked so crestfallen at the words that Anathema couldn’t help but speak up. “But I have a book of prophecy. I can take a look at it for you?”

Neriah nodded. “I will be deeply indebted to you. Your help will be greatly rewarded.” 

“Yeah, cool.” Anathema picked up the book, flipping through the pages. Nothing about angels. A strange bit that read: _ ‘midnight pass’ns burn imprison’d whilst the Virgin gazes,’  _ but that didn’t seem to apply. A tap on the kitchen window startled her from her thoughts. “Here, hold this,” she said, passing the book to Neriah. Cautiously, she pulled back the curtains, only to laugh at Newt, who was pulling a face through the glass.

She waved him off with a grin and turned back to Neriah. “I can’t promise to be the expert on feelings, but I can tell you that if you feel it, you will know. It’s...inevitable, I guess. If you care for her and want to be with her, then the only thing left to do is talk about it. Trust me, she feels the same.” 

Anathema found herself very glad angels couldn’t read minds when her own thoughts took a turn for the traitorous.  _ Newt doesn’t count,  _ she told herself. And she was smarter than to fall for someone after only a week. Neriah was oblivious, simply nodding along. Her face turned determined.

“Thank you very much for your help, kind human,” Neriah smiled, stepping out. 

“Please, call me Anathema.” She closed the door with a soft creak and decided to make some tea while she waited for Newt to come back. Anathema really had gotten quite used to his company. How had she ever gotten by with only the silence of her cottage?

It was only later that Anathema would realize that the Nice and Accurate Prophecies by Agnes Nutter was gone, taken accidentally by Neriah. But right now, all she could think about was how angels weren’t so different from humans after all. 

* * *

It happened while on a picnic. 

Anathema, having dug out an old bottle of wine a friend had gifted her a couple years ago, suggested that they could go out in the woods. “You could breathe some fresh air, help get your strength back up.” Neither of them mentioned that Newt was almost completely healed, and that their time together was coming to an end. She saw it as a last hurrah kind of thing, just an afternoon to spend with someone she had started to consider a friend before he left.

“As long as nothing’s poisoned,” Newt said, earning an elbow to the side. He laughed. “Okay, sorry. I can help cook whatever you need?”

Anathema accepted his offer, and was pleasantly surprised that he could make wonderful rosemary scones. Meanwhile, she prepared the basket and a jar of clotted cream and preserves. The smell of baking bread filled the cottage. Using a dull knife, Anathema also managed to slice some fruit and cheese. She noticed Newt watching her. “What?”

He looked away sharply. “Nothing.” A moment later, he spoke. “Well, it’s just that everything is so  _ normal _ .”

Anathema raised an eyebrow. “And you expected...bubbling cauldrons and pointed hats, is that right?” 

The expression on Newt’s face told her that wasn’t far from the truth. “I’ve been told that your kind,” he waved vaguely towards her. “Are all rotten to the core. And you’re just normal. Even better than normal, I guess. You’re more skilled at medicine than most doctors in the city, you make fantastic tea, you even talk to animals that wander by.”

Anathema tried to stifle her smile. Once, Newt had seen her murmuring to a rabbit caught in a bramble bush, untangling the creature from the thorns and letting it hop off. He had called her  _ ‘a bona-fide princess _ .’ She threw a twig at him. “That doesn’t mean anything,” she said, putting the food on the wicker basket and scooping up an old blanket. 

“But it does,” Newt insisted, walking after her as she left the cottage, locking the door. His hand came to rest on her shoulder, and she stopped in her tracks. “I don’t think I could ever truly leave this place. What you’ve done for me, it’s more than most would’ve. Especially considering my official charge was to arrest those like you.”

“Yeah, well,” Anathema started walking. “Maybe I’ve warmed up to you.” 

“Consider the feeling mutual.” 

Saints and demons, Anathema would miss him when he left. 

They laid the blanket down on a more open part of the woods, close enough to the river that the rushing of water could be heard. The noonday sun filtered through the canopy of leaves, casting everything in a soft yellow-green light. Anathema gently diverted the path of the bugs away as she poured them each a glass of wine. This was the best company she’d ever had, excluding Miss Tracy. Conversation flowed easily, everything from what the war was like, to what Anathema did to avoid discovery.

“Nobody has ever found this place,” she said. “My family has lived here for a long time, and people only explore the unknown in order to destroy it.”

“Is that why you were so nervous to bring me here in the first place?” Newt watched a squirrel dig a hole by the gnarled roots of an oak, only to close it back up and rush away. “I mean, I can’t blame you. I would do anything I could in order to protect it if I was in your shoes.”

Anathema nodded. “I figured anybody who stood up to an Archangel couldn’t be so bad after all.” She finished off her scone, taking a sip of wine to wash it down. It was their second glass—or was it third? In any case, she was pleasantly warm, content settling over her like sunshine. “And it turned out well in the end.” 

Newt inhaled, setting down his glass. “Listen, Anathema.” Her name sounded foreign on his lips, in a nice way. “I’ve been trying to say something for a while, and I’ve only just figured out how to word it. This place, your cottage...I’ve never felt as happy as I do there. I love talking with you, even when we bicker. I love helping you manage your home. The guard, the war, my mandate, it doesn’t matter. None of the outside does. Not when I have you.” 

Anathema was the very opposite of dull. She knew what he was about to say. And she knew that when he did, she would be forced to make a choice, to acknowledge whatever had grown between them, to truly accept Agnes’ prophecy. The realization scared her, struck her with a dizzy sort of fear, like she was standing on the edge of a cliff, with a rope that may or may not be attached and a partner that may or may not stop her fall. 

“You’ve got something,” she murmured, reaching forward to brush away a bit of clotted cream that had made in on the corner of Newt’s mouth. “Right there.” Newt’s eyes widened, and he brought his hand up to lace his fingers with hers.

“I need you to tell me if this is okay,” he whispered. “Not because of a prophecy, but because you feel the same.”

Anathema swallowed. And she stepped off the cliff, praying that he would be there to catch her.

Newt’s lips were soft and tasted as sweet as the wine he had drank, but Anathema supposed she was the same. She smiled against his mouth. “Yes,” she said, with perfect certainty. She kissed him again, heart fluttering in her chest. “Don’t make me regret it.”

Newt’s brown eyes shone with adoration when they met Anathema's. “I won’t,” he said, and then his lips were against hers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lowkey made myself ship anathema and newt while writing this. I hope y’all enjoyed the calm before the storm.  
> Please leave a comment telling me what you thought!


	11. Tradidit

Newt should’ve known something would go wrong eventually.

Back when he was an apprentice, Newt studied the theory of chaos, through little pamphlets he managed to sneak away. It stated that the entire universe was constantly moving towards a state of disorder, and that every situation was a ticking time bomb, waiting to go off. Only a matter of time before everything dissolved into anarchy, one event at a time. He thought it was stupid at first, but even years later he found truth in it.

There was his family, perfect at first glance, and then ripped apart when the fever rolled through the kingdom and their neighbors declared war for precious land. Then the battleground, where a month could pass without so much as a whisper from the other side, until an ambush took the lives of fifty soldiers. And now, in Anathema’s cottage, perhaps the best week of Newt’s life, a steady sense of dread had built. Chaos was about to strike. It was inevitable as Anathema herself, who appeared to him in the square and never quite left his mind.

She really was beautiful, Newt thought, with tanned skin and dark hair and even darker eyes that sparkled with clever determination. He especially loved her freckles, running his thumb over each one that dotted her cheeks and then kissing them until she was laughing. Every time he looked at her, something in his chest tightened until he thought he’d never be able to breathe properly again. Newt had never been in love, but he could recognize the feeling anyway.

This morning, she had decided to head out to the market. “ _ Mind the cottage, _ ” she told Newt. “ _ I still don’t know how safe it is, okay? _ ” Now, he waited restlessly for Anathema to get back with groceries, resisting the urge to unwrap the bandages covering his chest. There was a new kind of poultice on them, to prevent heavy scarring. Although he didn’t particularly mind the scars—in his opinion, they were actually nice—he still let Anathema smooth the paste on his skin. He didn’t even complain. Well, he complained a little, when it started stinging. 

It was still a miracle, how she managed to heal him, not only from a holy sword, but also from a wound that supposedly cauterized. Once, Anathema had let slip something about a curse to neutralize the divine fire, but she was half-asleep so Newt didn’t worry about it much. She would tell him if something was wrong, right? 

An idea popped into Newt’s brain, once that wouldn’t leave, no matter how hard he tried to force it away. They hadn’t really discussed what was going to happen after Newt was healed. Actually, he was already healed, and every extra day they spent was only a futile attempt to extend their time together, which was rapidly coming to an end. But once he left, would he have to resume his job with the guard? He didn’t particularly want to, not after witnessing the corruption firsthand. 

But were they searching for him? If they were, it would be better for Newt to make one last appearance, resign from his position as Captain, and then come back here. Resolve everything in one conversation and then never speak of it again. If he was assumed dead, then it would be more dangerous for Anathema if he was to be spotted. And he couldn’t very well stay here his entire life, could he? Of course, he would go wherever Anathema went, but living in fear was barely living at all. 

Would just one last visit to the Judge be so bad? He could resign, clear his and Anathema’s name, and move on, preferably with her. But he knew that if he waited for Anathema to come around, she would try to dissuade him. If he went now, and got back before she did, nobody would ever have to know. The plan was foolproof, really. Newt still had free will, after all, so once he turned in his armor—in the metaphorical sense, considering the actual stuff was at the bottom of the riverbed—there was nothing the guard could do but appoint a new Captain.

So Newt locked the door behind him and set off through the woods. He knew the side that opened up to the riverbank, but since he wasn’t going to swim across, he went the opposite way. When Anathema walked through the forest, it seemed that all of nature was speaking to her, from the trees whose bark she reverently ran her hands over, to the birds chirping above. But with Newt, there was only disapproving silence, as if the grass itself was trying to warn him.

As he walked, he recalled asking Anathema about auras. Instead of asking what his was like, he asked about her own. She looked shocked, as if nobody had ever bothered to know. “Green,” she said, after a while, and then chuckled. “To be expected, right? My mom told me that when I was a baby, she thought I didn’t have an aura. Turns out I did, it was just too spread out. My mom’s was blue, kind of like the sky during twilight.” Although she had never told Newt was his looked like, he also liked to think it was also green. Or at the very least, a complementary color, like yellow.

Was that a thing Anathema could sense, compatibility? Or did she get that sort of thing from that book of hers? Newt moved a branch aside gently, taking the city in after being apart from it. It seemed lackluster, compared to the beauty of the forest and the secluded place he had secretly begun to call home. Taking a deep breath, he stepped into the street. Nobody jumped out at him, there was no collective gasp. Only people, going about their collective morning business. 

There were no guards patrolling, Newt figured, because this was the exchange time. He had about twenty minutes to get to the Palace of Justice without being recognized. The map of the city, which he had memorized after the festival, appeared in his mind. He navigated his way past the tents, pausing only for a second to notice the sign that said:  _ Madame Tracy, Medium and Painted Lady.  _ Anathema had brought her up on more than one occasion, citing the kindly woman as her best, and only, friend. 

Newt considered stopping by but changed his mind. He needed to do this quickly, before he lost his nerve. 

It had been little more than a week since he first arrived in the city and knocked on the Judge’s door, but it felt like a lifetime ago. Steeling his nerves, Newt rapped his knuckles on the wood. Shadwell opened the door, his jaw dropping as soon as he saw who was standing there. The Captain, not dead nor injured, but in clean clothes, wearing a grim look of determination. 

“Judge Shadwell,” he inclined his head. “May I come in?”

“You’re  _ alive _ ?” Shadwell’s brain seemed to have stopped working as he stepped aside to let Newt in. “But I thought…”

“That Gabriel killed me?” Newt raised an eyebrow, letting Shadwell’s eyes confirm it for him. “Obviously not true.”

“How…”

“Did I survive?” Newt hesitated, wondering how much he should tell. “A stroke of luck. Listen, I am here for a reason.”

“Well, sit down, lad. We can discuss it here.” Shadwell gestured to the large table, plopping down in one of the chairs with a sigh. He regarded Newt with uneasy caution. “Thought for sure your body was going to wash up one of these days.”

Newt snorted. “Wow. Morbid.”

“But you seem to be in good health,” said Shadwell. Something was off about his tone, but Newt decided not to press it. 

“Thank you. It really is a miracle I made it out alive. But here I am,” he gestured to himself. 

“I assume you want to resume your position as Captain of the Guard?” 

“Has somebody been promoted to replace me?”  
“Yes, but she will be immediately moved down to second in command upon your return.” Shadwell made for the paper and quill in the middle of the table, but Newt stopped him. 

“No.”

“No?”

“I do not wish to resume my position as Captain. I’m sure Miss…” Newt racked his brain for the name. “Lyssa,” he said slowly. “Miss Lyssa will be just as competent of a Captain as me, if not better.”

Shadwell’s frown creased his face deeply. “I’m not sure I understand, lad.”

“I’m here to resign, Judge, and I hope to do so with little fuss.”

Flabbergasted, Shadwell stumbled for a response. “Well...are you sure? Because we could always have someone like you, leading the team, and I know they promoted you for a reason. No use in leaving, so much paperwork to be done. And Gabriel will most likely want to know that you’ve survived...should probably tell him…”

“No,” Newt said, a bit harsher than intended. “I don’t want to keep my job. I can find work elsewhere in the city, as long as I can safely resign.” 

“Why wouldn’t it be safe, lad?”  
Newt coughed incredulously. “The last time I disobeyed, I almost got smited. Forgive me if I don’t want to take any risks.”

Shadwell nodded, somber. “In that case, you’re free to go. I won’t say anything and Lyssa will continue her position as Captain. Just...be careful.”

Newt stood, walking towards the door. Everything was going perfectly. “Thank you, Judge.” As he twisted the doorknob, he heard Shadwell speak, so quiet he could barely understand it. 

“I’m glad you stood up to him. The people needed to see that he wasn’t invincible, or even pure. The world needs more brave men like you, Newton.”

Newt opened the door. “And what about you, Shadwell? Are you brave?”

The Judge shook his head, a sad sort of look in his eyes. Newt walked out of the Palace of Justice for the last time. 

The walk to the cottage barely took any time, now that Newt remembered which way to go. He made his way through the forest quickly, not bothering to look around behind him. But if he had, he would’ve noticed armor-clad figured trailing behind him. Just like if he’d lingered a second longer outside of the Judge’s door, he would’ve heard the man say, with no small degree of reluctance:  _ ‘follow him.’  _ But Newt had done neither of those things, so he wasn’t aware of the betrayal committed against him and the betrayal he was about to commit.

He ran into Anathema in the meadow. She was carrying a basket containing various groceries she couldn’t acquire from home, and her eyes went wide. “What are you doing here?” she said, not quite alarmed enough to be truly shocked. 

Newt shrugged. “Went for a walk.” He linked arms with her as they walked to the cottage, and she temporarily dismantled the protective spells to let them through. “I believe that I’m officially considered dead in the eyes of the guard.”

Anathema smiled when he opened the door for her. “Does that mean…?”

“I can stay.” He took the basket out of her hands and set it down by the doorway, lacing their fingers together. “I can stay with  _ you.”  _ Turning shy, he glanced away. “If you’ll have me that is.” 

She raised their joined hands to cradle his jaw. “Newt—”

“—How nice. The traitor and the witch.” A sharp voice caught their attention. Standing on the other side of the clearing leading up to the cottage was a woman, ten guards behind her. All of them regarded the pair with varying looks of disdain. Lyssa, the new Captain of the Guard, strolled forward, the spell that had been bent for Anathema and Newt allowing her in easily. Anathema yanked her hands from Newt’s as if the mere touch burned.

“Who are you?” Anathema called, her glare fierce even as Newt saw how she trembled. “And why are you here?”

Lyssa gestured to the guards behind her. “Search the place under probable cause of witchcraft.” Her gaze slid to Newt. “Thank you for the help, by the way. The homes of witches are notoriously difficult to find, much less get into. We’ll arrest her soon enough.” 

Anathema stared at him. “You…” 

“I didn’t do anything,” he said, pointing to Lyssa and the guards that were quickly rushing forward. “ _ She  _ followed me.”

Anathema shook her head, stumbling back until she hit the doorframe. “No... _ no. _ ” 

Newt tried to reach out towards her, but was swatted away. The guards shoved the two of them aside as they poured into the cottage, everything Anathema had lovingly taken care of thrown aside. They pushed furniture, knocked over jars, tossed blankets and rugs. Nothing was safe. Meanwhile, Lyssa watched impassively. 

“Anathema,  _ listen. _ ” Newt tried to get her to focus. They needed to get out of here. Once the guards found something vaguely related to the occult, they would arrest her. But now, they could still get away. “Please, listen. I’m sorry, I went to resign, I didn’t know they would  _ follow me.  _ We have to go.” 

She shoved him away. “No, Newt.  _ You  _ have to go.” Before he could so much as open his mouth to protest, she turned to Lyssa, raising her voice into a shout. “I would like to confess to all accused charges of witchcraft.” Lyssa’s jaw dropped; this was not an expected outcome. Meanwhile, Newt grabbed onto Anathema’s hand. She yanked it from his grasp. “Get out of here,” she whispered. “Before they arrest you too.” 

The truth washed over him. Anathema wasn’t  _ angry,  _ she was trying to protect him. Too bad he wouldn’t let her. 

“Come on. I’m not letting you go this easily.” He started running, pulling her along. “I love you, Anathema, goddammit, and I know this is unforgivable, but I promise you, I will  _ never  _ let any harm come to you. And that includes getting arrested for something that’s barely a crime.” 

For a second, Anathema stood, frozen in shock. That was the first time he had ever admitted it. Then, she took his hand. Together, they ran into the forest, even as Lyssa chased them, shouting at the guards to keep searching. As they dashed through the gnarled woods, ones that got increasingly more tangled the deeper they went. Anathema turned to him, and his heart broke at the look on her face.

“Newt,” she whispered, escaping the place she had called home for so long overrun by guards. Tears welled in her eyes. “What have you  _ done _ ?”

* * *

Aziraphale awoke from his first night of sleep ever to find that not only was dreaming rather nice, but that waking up with your lover was even better. Their legs tangled together, and Crowley’s arm wrapped around Aziraphale’s waist to keep him close. Aziraphale’s chin rested on top of a head of red curls barely contained by the braid. Even though neither of them really needed to breathe, their heartbeats synchronized regardless. A smile spread across his lips. He could get used to this. 

It was still dark, although his eyes had adjusted considerably. Without extricating himself, he could still look at Crowley’s face, peaceful as he slept. Aziraphale lightly undid the tie on Crowley’s braid, just to run his hands through his hair. Slowly, Crowley’s eyes slid open to meet Aziraphale’s. He grinned, edges softened by the dreamy haze cast over them.

“Morning, angel.”

Aziraphale thought he would never properly breathe again, that he would always be struck with the realization of just how much he  _ adored  _ Crowley. This was better than any hymn, better than blessings, better than all of Heaven. He would trade it all away just for that beautiful smile, as radiant as gold. “I love you,” he said, running his fingertips over Crowley’s face, mapping out the lines of his cheekbones, his nose, his jaw. “I don’t think I’ll ever tire of saying it.”

“Good for me, in that case,” Crowley wriggled his other arms free and used it to pull Aziraphale into a kiss. That was another thing Aziraphale would never tire of. When Crowley snapped his fingers, a little ball of hellfire materializing by them, Aziraphale pulled away to squint blearily. 

“Too bright,” he complained, throwing the corner of the blanket over his eyes. “I could see you before.” Sneaking a peek proved to Aziraphale that however good he thought Crowley looked before, he was now even better, illuminated by the flickering light of the fire. 

“Yeah?” Crowley tilted his head, a mischievous expression tugging at his features. He looked like one of those geometrical classical paintings—all lean shapes and angles. Even his fangs were sharp, pointed as he smirked. “What if I want to see  _ you _ ?”

“You have night-vision, don’t be daft ... _ Crowley!”  _ Aziraphale burst into laughter when Crowley jabbed his fingers against his ribcage. In between gasps for air, he tried to shove Crowley away, only for the tickling to intensify. “Let...up..you  _ serpent! _ ” He finally managed to get free, grabbing onto Crowley’s wrist and holding it against the stone alcove as he flipped them around. Now it was Crowley’s turn to breathe a soft laugh when he brought his other hand up to stroke the side of Aziraphale’s face.

“You’re stunning like this, angel,” he whispered, with a quiet sort of reverence. “Everything about you, I…” he trailed off, shaking his head. “Look at me, a demon fumbling for wordssss.”

Aziraphale leaned down to press a kiss to Crowley’s forehead. “It’s endearing.”

“It’s  _ embarasssssing,  _ that’s what it isssss.” Crowley’s cheeks had just a faint dusting of pink, and Aziraphale fell increasingly more in love with him by the second. If humans had the natural capacity for  _ this,  _ then why weren’t they drowning in affection all the time? “You know, there’s a superstition of sorts here, that angel kisses give you freckles.”

“Really?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “Then maybe you should get a freckle here…” he brought his lips to flutter against Crowley’s cheek. “...and here…” a kiss to each eyelid. He could feel Crowley’s shy smile. “...and here.” Crowley’s mouth yielded easily when Aziraphale moved there. He pulled away, eyes crinkling slightly. “Here as well, I should think.” Aziraphale deposited one last kiss to the hollow of Crowley’s throat. No freckles, but Crowley did turn bright red, which was almost the more gratifying reaction.

“You are rather adorable, you do know that, right?”

Crowley’s eyes slid open just enough to glare at him. “ _ Not  _ adorable.”

Aziraphale nodded, trying to look serious. “Ah yes. Very, very evil. What a wily old serpent you are.” 

Crowley smiled, looking pleased. “Yesssss,” he hissed, closing his eyes once more. “I love you,” he said, quietly. “I love you so much that I can’t even comprehend it.”

Aziraphale ran his fingers lazily through Crowley’s curls, settling down beside him. Sleep really was nice, when it was with someone in particular “I love you too, my dear. Don’t suppose you know what time it is?”

Crowley went silent, as if concentrating. “A couple hours past dawn. Why?”

Aziraphale suddenly shot bolt upright. “ _ Morning.  _ It’s  _ morning _ ?” His voice rose to a shriek. “I’m supposed to be back at the cathedral...Gabriel is probably waiting for me…oh God this’ll be a mess to sort out.” He turned to Crowley accusingly. “Why didn’t you tell me humans sleep the entire night?”

“I thought you  _ knew, _ ” exclaimed Crowley, equally distressed. He snapped his fingers and Aziraphale was suddenly clothed, not a thread out of place. Miracles were shockingly useful for a variety of purposes, as it turned out. 

Aziraphale beamed at him. “Thanks,” he said. Crowley shuffled forward, pulling Aziraphale close by the fabric of his tunic for a final kiss. 

“Be careful.” The words buzzed between their lips with the desperation of not wanting to lose something you never had until now. But the fear would be over soon, when Crowley ascended and they could both be angels. 

“I will.”

Crowley snapped his fingers again and Aziraphale appeared outside of the cathedral. He took a deep breath, making sure everything was in order. Then, he walked in past the Liturgy Service and prepared himself to face Gabriel. It wouldn’t be long, he told himself. Just a little more pretending. The next time Gabriel was distracted, Aziraphale could retrieve the demons and help them Ascend, just like last time. Although now, he would succeed. If he didn’t…the thought was too frightening to comprehend. 

Failure was not an option. If Aziraphale lost now, he would lose everything. 

He climbed the stairs to the bell tower, steeling himself. Just as he expected, Gabriel was standing there, waiting for him. His eyes were frozen over with displeasure and he crossed his arms when he caught sight of Aziraphale. The look on his face wasn’t quite rage, but it was more frightening than ever. 

“Hello, Aziraphale.” One smile from him and Aziraphale was back to the frightened coward he was before everything had happened on Earth. “How was your night?”

Aziraphale matched him in his disinterest. “Well. I spent it in an inn. Couldn’t lose track of the demons, I’m sure you understand.” 

Gabriel nodded. “Yes, yes. I appreciate your devotion to your work very much, no matter how inept you have proven yourself to be.” 

Aziraphale fought to keep his expression even. “Thank you, Gabriel. I try my best.”

“I know, and that’s why I brought a gift. You do like those mortal foods, right?”  
Although Aziraphale feared he would vomit up anything he tried to eat, he said yes nonetheless. There was no way to decline without raising suspicion. Gabriel clapped his hands once and a table appeared, with two chairs across from each other. A second time, and a plate appeared. When Gabriel sat down immediately, Aziraphale paused. Was this some sort of trap?

Gabriel must’ve caught sight of Aziraphale’s anxiety, because he raised an eyebrow. “Is something troubling you?”

Aziraphale’s blood ran cold and he fumbled for the chair. “No, no, of course not.”

Gabriel’s smile only grew. “Oh, but there is. I know there is, just like I know—”

“It’s really nothing. Everything is fine.” Aziraphale couldn’t slip up now. His night with Crowley had left his brain scrambled, and his heart longed for the next time he could see him. But to do that, he had to get through this first. 

“You’re not eating,” Gabriel remarked.

Azraphale, in his rush to remedy that, leaned over the table, the gold apple pendant slipping from his clothes to hang openly around his neck. He didn’t realize what had happened until Gabriel’s eyes fell upon it and everything came crashing down. Gabriel grabbed onto it, leaving Aziraphale hanging uncomfortably across the tabletop, doing his best not to pass out. 

“Ah.” Gabriel’s eyes narrowed.“And from where did you get this? Or from  _ who, _ I should say.” A nasty look crept over his face, voice dropping into a horrifying shout. But even then, he didn’t look shocked. Instead, something had been confirmed for him and he was equally overjoyed and disgusted by it. “It was the demon, wasn’t it? You helped him escape!”

“No, I—” 

Gabriel pulled Aziraphale closer by the pendant until the chain was in danger of breaking and Aziraphale’s breath grew strained. “The fire was  _ your  _ fault.  _ You  _ caused it. Everything that happened was because of  _ you  _ and your useless  _ weakness  _ to  _ temptation. _ ” 

Aziraphale’s composure snapped, and tears trembling in corners of his eyes weren’t from sadness, but from anger. “He showed me  _ kindness,  _ which is more than you could ever say.”

His words, rushing out after so long being pent up, broke the last strain of Gabriel’s restraint. The pendant snapped, apple whirling in the opposite direction of Aziraphale, who all but flew out of his chair. Gabriel advanced towards him, face twisted as he was near suffocating from his fury. 

“You’re even stupider than I thought if you took his...his  _ charms  _ for kindness. A demon like him isn’t capable of real love. Think, you useless angel, think! Someone as lowly and disgusting as him would take any chance to drag you down to his level, corrupt you until you betrayed me and Fell. You’re a fool if you ever thought he cared for you. No, his only goal was to seduce you, manipulate you to serve his evil plans.  _ He  _ cannot feel... _ demons  _ cannot feel. And you’re so close to becoming one of them, wallowing in their bitter humiliation.” 

Spittle flew from his lips as he circled Aziraphale, who was frozen to the ground, unable to move, unable to think of anything save for the awful sense of powerlessness that grew within him. Everything grew too overwhelming, a cold wave washing down his back as surely as the lead settling in his stomach. He tried to speak but his mouth was dry. When had everything gone so wrong?

Just when he thought Gabriel would strike him, the harsh snapping of his voice abated into a quiet whisper. That was almost worse. He leaned in to speak to Aziraphale, pity saturating his tone. “I can’t blame you, though. What chance could a poor, deformed angel have against his wicked wiles? But he’ll be out of our way soon enough. Temptation will no longer plague you.”

Aziraphale squeezed his eyes shut, trying to gather himself. “...what…?” He looked at Gabriel for a fraction of a second, only to see a slow, cheery grin spreading over his lips.

“Well, you see, someone as powerless as you wouldn’t exactly be able to track down a den of Fallen ones. But I have,” his grin widened. “I found them, Aziraphale. All of them. And tomorrow, I will attack, with the force of Heaven behind me.”

Aziraphale took a second to process. First, the ice in his veins constricted. Then, his vision began to blur, all the air squeezed from his lungs in his horror. Everything he had built up crumbled around him, taking to the air and being carried away by the buffeting wind. When Gabriel clasped his hands and vanished into Light, all Aziraphale could do was sink to his knees. His swirling, fractured mind solidified into two clear thoughts.

Gabriel knew. And Aziraphale had to warn Crowley. 

They could go now, find a way to ascend. Nevermind that Aziraphale had no idea where to go. But all that mattered was a way to escape, to get away from Gabriel’s wrath. Who knew how many angels he would bring, ready for battle, to slaughter the demons? If he knew, then Aziraphale had to go,  _ now.  _ He ran down the stairs and out of the cathedral, not breathing, not thinking. After everything, he couldn’t lose Crowley. 

The streets were so shockingly normal, and devoid of guards, that it only made Aziraphale go faster. He needed to make it to the Garden, give the demons enough time to evacuate, save them from Gabriel. He spent only a second pausing by the door. It would burn him, without Crowley’s ribbon to open it. But that didn’t stop Aziraphale. Pushing his cloak aside and wincing, he plucked a black feather out. He ran it along the doorknob.

It had to work.  _ Please, just this once.  _ Aziraphale let out a great rush of air when the door swung open. Dropping his feather by the door, he left the trapdoor ajar as he climbed down. There was no time, especially since the demons would be using soon, to get out. He ran through the tunnel in total darkness, shouting whatever he could.

_ “Crowley! Anyone! You have to come now!”  _

A burst of hellfire illuminated Trinal, whose long claws and teeth glowed. “White wings?” She advanced towards Aziraphale, tilting her head. Her eyes flared bright red. “What is it?”

Aziraphale rushed forward. “You have to…” he panted, out of breath. “You have to leave. Gabriel is—he found out—you have to go.” 

Trinal’s face fell. She grabbed onto Aziraphale’s wrist and suddenly, they were standing on the outcropping, looking over the cavern. A shrill sort of shriek left her, and demons slowly began to assemble, gathering beneath them. Crowley himself appeared by Aziraphale’s side, his presence and comforting as it was frightening. It reminded Aziraphale of everything he had to lose. Once most of the demons were paying attention, Aziraphale took Crowley’s hand and projected his voice. 

“I’ve come to warn you, of Gabriel and the other angels! They have discovered this place and plan to attack soon. You all must leave right now, while I figure out the path to Ascend.” 

The demons scattered, scrambling for the few mortal belongings. Voices rang out, trying to find their friends. Crowley looked at Aziraphale, pupils going thin with fear. “Angel? What happened?”

Aziraphale turned to him, running his thumb over Crowley’s cheekbone. “I can explain it all later. But right now, you have to go. I don’t know how much time we have before—”

Someone cut in. “About five seconds, I should think.” 

Aziraphale turned, dread sinking within him. He already knew who had spoken. 

Gabriel grinned broadly. Beside him appeared Michael and Uriel, their shine almost blinding to the demons. A clap later, Light came down on every tunnelway, trapping all beings inside. He inclined his head to Aziraphale. “Thank you, Principality. Turns out you aren’t so useless after all.” He laughed, a sound that chilled Aziraphale to the core. Crowley was stumbling back, extending his wings as if to shield the others from Gabriel. 

“You aren’t welcome here,” he hissed. “I’ll tear you apart the second you lay a hand on me, or anyone else, for that matter.” 

Gabriel pursed his lips. “You aren’t going willingly, are you?”

“Take a  _ wild  _ guess, you absolute _ pathetic _ excuse for an Archangel.” 

Gabriel nodded as if that made perfect sense. Crowley’s eyes were so fixed on him that he didn’t see Michael and Uriel rush forward and grab Aziraphale. “Then perhaps you can be persuaded. Tell me, demon, do you know what holy swords can do, even to angels?” 

“Yeah, I know. I know because I saw you stab him once already, you  _ ass _ ,” Crowley snarled. All his bravado quickly fell away when Gabriel manifested the sword. The demons below them went completely silent as he advanced.

Aziraphale’s eyes locked with Crowley’s. “Don’t do it, Crowley. I’ll be fine.” Uriel’s grip on his arm was almost painful, but he kept himself still. “Save the others.” 

All the fight went out of Crowley. His wings folded back and he inclined his head. “Take me instead. Leave the rest.” 

_ “No!”  _ Aziraphale tried to struggle away, to run to Crowley, to protect him. But he could do nothing but watch.

Gabriel paused, as if considering, then clapped his hands. Like a sort of sick applause, but each sound was followed by a scream of agony as each demon was bound in holy shackles. All the blood drained from Crowley’s face, replaced by a look of pure terror. Nausea welled up in Aziraphale, and he fought to keep tears away from his eyes. He would not cry in front of the angels. 

“Bring him up to Heaven,” he tells Michael and Uriel. “And make sure he  _ stays  _ there. I have no need to deal with meddling Principalities while I execute the vermin.” He turned to the demons, who were now contained three cramped caged made up of glowing metal. It seemed to be as bad as consecrated ground, because they wailed in pain. “Let’s see how well the demons can swim in holy water.” 

“You’re  _ vile,” _ said Crowley, with more venom that should’ve been possible. 

Gabriel advanced towards him with a grin. Crowley tried to stumble back, but his back hit the wall. “And you,  _ snake,  _ will be getting special treatment for your insolence. And your little angel friend won’t be there to help you.” 

Everything began to glow, to burn with Light. Aziraphale tried to struggle away, but to no avail. The last thing he saw was Crowley’s face, brave until the inevitable end. He tried to cry out, to say one last thing, but he was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> here we goooooo. Newt isn't the most competent chap ever, but that's okay. Also, more fuel to the fire of Hating Archangel Gabe.  
> I appreciate the comments and the commenters so much!! I really hope you enjoyed this chapter, so please tell me what you thought <3


	12. Passio

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Attempted Rape. Nothing happens, but intent is plenty implied. Skip the first horizonal line, all the way down to the second one if you would like to avoid it.

They appeared in the cathedral because  _ of course  _ they did. Although now, there was no way to neutralize the effect of consecrated ground, leaving the demons to writhe in their cages, the cacophony of screams growing louder than any hymn. The horrific sound echoed off the walls and shook the wooden foundations. Gabriel appeared oblivious, humming cheerfully as the bars of his cages rattled. When any of the prisoners tried to speak, the Light would scald them.

Crowley would give anything to be in their position. But he didn’t get the privilege of staying in the main hall,  _ oh no. _ Gabriel personally escorted him through the church. The Archangel hadn’t seen fit to restrain Crowley, save for holy shackles that stung his wrists even as he tried to keep them still. Or as still as they could be when he hopped around anxiously, trying to hold himself balanced. 

He didn’t speak, because all his thoughts were consumed with Aziraphale. Where was he, what happened, would everything be okay? But he already knew the answer to the last question: no. Nothing would be, ever again, not while his brothers and sisters were awaiting their execution in agony. The cathedral floor burned, but not as bad as the pain in his heart, which was nearing the unbearable. One morning with Aziraphale, that was all he got before Gabriel had ripped it all away.

Gabriel turned to examine Crowley, and something in his gaze made Crowley’s skin crawl. For the first time, he recalled Aziraphale’s words concerning temptation. He had brushed them off as ludicrous, but now he wasn’t so sure. Hopefully, Aziraphale was wrong. If he wasn’t...Crowley didn’t even want to think about it. 

“I was  _ going  _ to put you in the chancel, but,” Gabriel pursed his lips thoughtfully. Crowley gulped. “Wouldn’t want you dying before the big day tomorrow. Also, no offense, but as nice as your screaming is, I wouldn’t want to hear it constantly.” 

Crowley fought to keep his expression still. He would be blessed before he’d let Gabriel see his fear. His upper lip curled back in a snarl. Even while doing his dance to stay off the floor, he looked nothing short of vicious. “You’re a sadistic prick on a power trip and I’m not going to let you bul—”

His vicious words were cut off by the harsh sound of Gabriel’s hand connecting with his jaw. Crowley stumbled from the backhand, head reeling. He thought he tasted blood in his mouth, and when he spat, the unnaturally dark liquid sizzled on the floor. Gabriel grabbed his chin, pulling him closer.

“Shut your mouth, before I tear your wings apart feather by feather until you’re  _ begging  _ for me to rip them off.” His voice was strangely even, and somehow Crowley knew it wasn’t an empty threat. He fell silent. Gabriel smiled. “Good. Now, how do you feel about spending a night in a chapel? To the Mother of God, perhaps?”

_ Ironic, considering everything,  _ Crowley didn’t say. Gabriel shrugged and clapped his hands and that was exactly where they appeared, in a fairly small room made up of windowless stone, an extinguished fireplace, and a skylight. It was far more blessed than the main hall, meaning Crowley couldn’t help but fall forward, a hiss caught between his teeth. His bindings vanished, but the buzzing of his bones didn’t dissipate. 

“Have a good evening, demon.” Gabriel tilted his head. “It’ll be your last one in existence.” And with that, he slammed the door shut, locking him in. Even now, the sounds from the other demons could still be heard. But there was nothing he could do, no way to help. 

Finally alone, Crowley let a ragged cry as the Virgin Mary’s Holiness overwhelmed him.

* * *

Hours passed, as they were wont to do. Dusk fell, turning the room orange for a few minutes. And then came the night, bringing with it silent dread.

Crowley had long since given up trying to avoid consecrated ground. The exhaustion had eventually run its course. He lay slumped on the stone floor of the cathedral, pain wracking his body in shudders that left him feeling even worse than before. Maybe he would manage to burn his entire being up before the angels came for him. 

The night was still, the wailing of other demons long since gone silent. Or at the very least, blocked from Crowley's mind. He was alright, as much as someone in excruciating torment could be.  _ Resigned _ , more like. His only company was the red Virgin Mary stained glass mural on the door he had stopped trying to break open. The starlight filtered in from the sky window high above, providing him with only the slightest illumination and giving her a lifelike quality. 

But in the highest tower of the cathedral, an Archangel slept, rest overtaking him once his evening prayers had concluded. Peaceful and holy, he lay. Warm yellow candlelight flickered around him, and the church embraced him like home. But he was anything but relaxed, his nighttime visions filled with such passion and heat and  _ desire  _ that enveloped him, eventually focusing into one coherent figure and—

And he was snapped from his dream, sweat slicking his skin as surely as the flush that traveled down his body. An intense want overtook him that he was unable to breathe, unable to think of anything except the one he has seen and what he coveted. So he rose, still in his angel’s garb, and set to walking down the flight of stairs. 

The Messenger had come to deliver a message of his own.

The door swung open, Mary’s fractured face rippling in the shifting light. Crowley didn’t even turn from where he lay on his stomach, facing the stone wall. They couldn’t obliterate him in a church, and as soon as he got out, he would show the guards how vicious he could be. But right now, he had neither the power nor the inclination to defend himself. 

Which is why, when the Archangel pounced, Crowley couldn’t fight back. He simply let his jaw collide with the ground, sending a fresh wave of agony racing through him. Hands gripped his shoulders, keeping him still as Gabriel’s weight settled over him. When Gabriel spoke, Crowley felt his tongue near his ear. Sickly bile rose in his throat.

“Even in my dreams, you follow me. Can nothing remain sacred for a creature such as yourself?”

Crowley tried to blink away the haze in his eyes. His words melded together in one blurry hiss. “How kind of you to ssshow up.”

“Do not play coy with me,  _ demon.”  _ Gabriel spat the word like venom. “You know of which I speak. I dreamt of taking you, of knowing you as a man would a woman.” 

“You mussst have me mistaken for Asmodeus. Lussst has never been my forte, ssso to sssspeak.” 

“The only way to douse the passions of the night is to satiate them and rid oneself of the iniquity.” Gabriel’s teeth found Crowley’s earlobe, breath revoltingly hot on his skin.

Crowley’s blood ran cold, his heart dropping to the pit of his stomach. He understood now, the unfortunate truth of why Gabriel was here. And for the first time since he was captured, he felt true fear. There was no way to transform into a serpent; the cathedral would burn his true form alive. His eyes narrowed to thin slits about at the same time he twisted his neck in order to properly see Gabriel, and to shake the Archangel’s mouth off of him. He recognized two things, realizations hitting swiftly one after the other. 

First was Gabriel’s face, cast in the faint light, was more undone than Crowley could consider possible. He looked like someone dying in the desert only to be offered an oasis, a starving man given a feast, a beggar thrown a fortune. If it wasn't Crowley that he had pinned to the floor, Crowley would've almost pitied him.

The second thing was realized with far more dread. Crowley, unthinking in his exhaustion, had turned to look at Gabriel with flushed cheeks and lips parted and eyes heavily-lidded. His hair, a tangled cascade of fire, fell across his forehead and tumbled down his shoulders, tunic just barely clinging into his body. In any other context, it would've been nothing but obscene. The epitome of temptation. 

Go—Sat— _ Someone:  _ what had Crowley  _ done _ ? 

The terror was back, like ice in his veins. But instead of lunging, Gabriel jumped away, stumbling back with an expression of pure horror. He hit the door in his attempt to get away, and it swung closed, leaving them trapped together. Ignoring the terrible protest of his body, Crowley forced himself to stand, gasping for air. It took all of his effort not to collapse, and he panted with exertion, not caring how it would appear to Gabriel. The air itself went still. 

Crowley knew he had nowhere to go, and summoning his wings would only make things worse. But that didn't stop him from lashing out when Gabriel tried to grab him. He thrashed and fought, hissing and clawing until he thought his knees would give out. Gabriel caught him by the arm, whirling him around until Crowley’s back was pressed against Gabriel’s chest. Held by his waist, Crowley could do nothing except shriek. 

Gabriel’s voice was no more than a low whisper, but there was something so vicious about it that made it worse than any scream. “Look what you’ve done, you demon. You’ve stolen into my mind and corrupted my thoughts. Nothing is safe from your temptations, not even the dreams of one as mighty as I.” His lips found Crowley’s neck—the very opposite of gentle. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” If Crowley was in his right mind, he might’ve connected the dots. But the floor seared into his flesh and Gabriel’s touch seared into his soul so all he could do was weakly try and shake himself away.

“A demon you may be, but you are far from being a fool.” Gabriel still sounded deceptively soft, but held an underlying bite. “You have used your body to your advantage and tempted me, turning my thoughts into those of a common  _ whore.” _

“You think I…” Crowley’s thoughts were cut off with a hiss when he felt Gabriel bury his fingers in his hair and pull his head back until Crowley was forced to look up at the glass-shielded sky, the storm clouds obscuring Heaven. Gabriel’s gaze lingered on Crowley’s exposed throat; he licked his lips slowly, as though tempted to taste Crowley’s skin for himself. Crowley couldn’t help the ragged, delirious chuckle that left him. “ _ I  _ did that? Any thoughts you’ve had are yours alone.”

Through the dim light and peripheral vision, Crowley saw Gabriel’s face twist like the roots of a decomposing tree, turning what might’ve been stonily handsome into something to rival even the worst denizens of Hell. The sharp lines of his face contorted into a snarl, irises blazing with violet rage. For the first time since Crowley has first laid eyes on him, Gabriel looked like a true Archangel.

“You know  _ nothing _ of the mind of an archangel, demon. You know not the purity I embody, the holiness that I am. But I cannot expect you to, as monstrously sinful as you are. Your very being oozes  _ sin.  _ It was you who poured these wretched temptations into my very being, and now you must answer for them.” 

Crowley thought Gabriel meant to strike him, to harm his corporeal form along with his spiritual one. He certainly seemed prepared to smite. But nothing happened. Instead, Gabriel turned gentle, a sharp contrast to the being of fury he had been seconds prior. His touch was cold, yet it remedied Crowley’s pain, pouring over the raw ache of his cursed spirit like a soothing balm.

“I can heal your wounds.” His fingers trailed down along Crowley’s wrist, shifting into his leg like a parasite. “I can take all of your pain away… your brethren can be saved too, demon. No longer will they have to suffer the pain, the  _ humiliation _ of being one of the Fallen. All you have to do…” his hand crept increasingly higher up Crowley’s thigh with every word “...is say  _ yes.” _

And the worst part was, Crowley was about to. He’d pray his apologies to Aziraphale in his head and let Gabriel do what he liked—use him, call him  _ demon  _ like he deserved nothing more _ ,  _ leave him sore and broken. Then walk out while still pretending he was pure _.  _ At least his mission would be completed, the demons would Ascend. Crowley would survive, if only as a pet for an Archangel to loose his frustrations on. 

But then he thought of Aziraphale, the way he cradled his face and whispered  _ you’re not evil at all  _ like it was the only absolute in a universe of uncertainties. Sweet, kind Aziraphale who was more human than angel for his compassion. Aziraphale, who would rescue him, save him from the brink of oblivion like he had before. Aziraphale, who loved. 

And only when Gabriel’s hand almost found its destination did Crowley find his voice. 

“No,” he said, even and peaceful. If Gabriel would hurt him, so be it. Aziraphale had endured much worse his entire life. Crowley could take a few moments of pain.

“What did you say?” Gabriel sounded almost calm. 

Crowley found strength to smile. “You heard me.  _ No. _ ”

“You don’t have the  _ right  _ to tell me that.” Gabriel let out a sound of pure frustration, grabbing Crowley’s arm and whirling him around until his back hit the wall. For a second, Crowley’s vision whited out with pain, and he fought to reorient himself. There was nothing he could do, no way to defend himself. He scrambled for something to say, anything to dissuade Gabriel, whose body pressed against Crowley’s, holding him in place.

“Not…” a splintering headache threatened to overwhelm him and he winced. “Not very angelic to take a lover, now issss it? Almighty wouldn’t approve.” Perhaps the threat of Falling would be enough. Crowley would’ve given anything for a drop of holy water right now, if only to put him out of his misery. 

Gabriel’s left hand twisted tight in Crowley’s hair, forcing him to stay still, while his other grabbed at Crowley’s tunic, running over his ribcage. Even then, he managed to smile. “Wouldn’t exactly consider it a  _ lover. _ ”

Crowley’s eyes fell on the mural across the room, the Virgin Mary mural.  _ Did he ever give you a choice?  _ He thought, a bit bitterly.  _ Were you ever allowed to speak for yourself?  _ The faint light caught just slightly on her eyes and they glowed, as if in response. At first, Crowley thought he was going delirious. But then Mary kept getting brighter, until the shine was flooding the chapel, focusing into one beam that struck Gabriel.

Gabriel recoiled, suddenly, jumping away from Crowley, flinching back in pain. He stared, shocked, at Crowley, who met his gaze with equally wide eyes. The Virgin Mary remained still, but Crowley  _ knew  _ that she was the reason Gabriel pulled away. A singed smell hung in the air. 

Gabriel blinked, stumbling away, grabbing for the handle of the door. “ _ Fine _ , be that way. You’ll regret it when you and your brethren melt into oblivion.” With that, he rushed out of the chapel, slamming the door closed. Everything was quiet once more

Crowley sank to the floor, ignoring how it scalded him. Anything to burn Gabriel’s touch away. “Thank you,” he whispered to Mary. No response. But then again, he hadn’t gotten one the last time he prayed. Only Aziraphale came to his aid. Maybe, just maybe, he could do so again. Maybe Crowley wasn’t in his right mind, maybe he was going to die. But he still held out hope. As long as he still breathed, he would hope.

_ O most pure and blessed Mary, the Mother of God _ ...

“God...are you there?” Crowley murmured, his voice echoing in the air. “Help me reach Aziraphale. Please tell him I love him and that I’m waiting. I’ll wait until the very end if that’s what I have to do. But I know he’ll come and rescue me, just like the last time I was here. He has to.” Crowley wouldn’t know what to do with himself if he was wrong. “Is that a selfish thing to pray for?” He sighed. 

... _ pour the mercy of thy Son and our God upon my fallen soul, and with thine intercessions set me unto good deeds... _

“And protect the other demons, please, if you can. Soothe their pain. Make sure that they can escape as well. I know you wouldn’t want the kind of slaughter Gabriel is setting up. You’re a God of mercy, of forgiveness. And why else would You let Mary save me? It’s a sign, I know it is, that we can Ascend.” Crowley knew he sounded insane, but this was the only way to keep the pain at bay. Keep talking, keep praying, keep hoping.

... _ that I may pass the rest of my life without blemish and, with thine aid, attain heaven... _

“I still trust You, despite everything. And others do, too, even after we thought ourselves forsaken. And Aziraphale trusts you, even though you let Gabriel do what he did. We’re all waiting for a sign, for proof that You are who You say. A loving, merciful God who doesn’t let tyrants like Gabriel roam unchecked.” Crowley leaned back against the wall, ignoring the pain as much as he could. He wouldn’t break now. He couldn’t. He had to stay strong, for Aziraphale. 

_ ...O Queen of the Heavenly Host, Defender of our souls: the only one who art pure and blessed, being delivered from evil, as thy servants... _

“And Aziraphale, you heard me in the undercroft.” Crowley laughed softly. “So long ago, you heard me and you came to my rescue. A true angel, not like those buffoons parading around with their entitled egos. So I hope you can hear me now. Come find me and the others, do what you did before and save us all. Or don’t, I don’t care. Just get out alive and well, run away somewhere far enough no one will ever think to look for you. All I want you to know is that I love you, no matter what happens.” His composure was starting to break. Was Aziraphale not coming?

_....we offer unto thee the hymns of thanks and victory; but as thou hast power invincible, deliver us from all calamity, that we may cry unto thee.... _

All throughout the night be prayed, he spoke to nobody but himself and God, if God was even there. He waited for Aziraphale to show up, with those beautiful, hopeful eyes and soft lips that always smiled when he looked at Crowley. But no one came. There was only silence and the steady sizzle of his body. Why was nobody there? Why was Crowley alone in the darkness? When could he  _ destroy himself already _ ? 

_...rejoice, O ever-Virgin Bride! _

Tears leaped to his eyes and this time, he didn’t bother holding them back. They trickled down his cheeks and evaporated as soon as they hit the floor. He could do nothing but bow his head and cry, the events of the day finally catching up to him as he curled in on himself, trying to vanish into oblivion. His entire being was wracked with sobs as he collapsed. The cold truth of it all settled over him, as surely as the unbearable burn of the consecrated ground against his skin. 

Aziraphale wasn’t coming. Nobody was. Crowley would be dead by morning. 

And he would die alone.

_ Amen. _

* * *

Aziraphale struggled against his chains, but found that they did not give. He had long since stopped trying to speak, for Michael and Uriel simply ignored him. But the pounding of his heart and every quick, panicked breath he took screamed louder than any words. The two Archangels did not respond to anything, no cajoling or pleading could make them unravel the holy chains wound around Aziraphale.

He couldn’t stop thinking about Crowley. It would be night on Earth, and Gabriel had promised the execution in the morning. But there were many things worse than death, and it pained Aziraphale to think of what suffering Crowley was currently enduring. It took all of his self-control not to break down, to simply let his guilt fester in silence. There was no way he could make it out, not with Michael and Uriel guarding him. Not with the chains. Not without his wings, a way to get to Earth.

How were the demons? How was  _ Crowley? _ Aziraphale swore to himself that if Gabriel harmed even a hair on Crowley’s head, if he had even  _ attempted  _ to, Aziraphale would bring all of Hell and Heaven’s wrath down upon him, no matter what it took. But now, a cold sense of hopelessness started to creep up on him. If Crowley didn’t make it... _ no.  _ He had to. He had to survive so they could spend more than a fleeting week together. 

Aziraphale hadn’t even gotten to kiss him goodbye.

A lump rose in his throat, a fresh wave of desperation overtaking him, and he was ready to beg Uriel for freedom or barter his very life with Michael for even a chance at saving Crowley from his fate. But then, something happened. 

“I can take over from here,” said a voice. Aziraphale twisted his neck, ignoring the ache, only to see Archangel Raphael, his expression completely blank as he advanced. “There’s been a disturbance on Earth with a witch and some guards and Gabriel wants you two to investigate.”

Uriel raised an eyebrow. “We aren’t regular angels, Raphael, nor are we guardsmen ourselves.”

Raphael showed no signs of backing down. “Take it up with Gabriel if you want, but I’m warning you, he’s busy preparing for the execution, so don’t expect a warm welcome.”

Michael pursed her lips. “Where is it?” 

Making a vague gesture with his hand, Raphael waved. “Somewhere in the woods. Fly overhead and you’ll see it for sure.” 

Aziraphale didn’t understand. Even though he rarely saw any Archangels save for Gabriel, Raphael was the most reclusive. Preferring to stay away from the city where everyone knew who he was, he instead traveled as a common healer throughout the continent. It was not an envied job, and he was mostly regarded as crazy every time he appeared from a new discorporation. Now, he had shown up for a task he was most certainly not supposed to be doing, lying directly to his siblings. Something was off.

Uriel nodded. “You better not be lying.”

“What, you can’t tell that with your Grace? Go, already, before you miss the happenings.” Raphael turned away from them as they vanished, wincing when a sound like a clap of thunder echoed through Heaven. “Ugh,” he said as soon as Michael and Uriel were gone. “Always did have a flair for the dramatic.”

“What are you doing here?” Aziraphale regarded him with no small amount of suspicion. This could still be a trick, to make him reveal something else.

“Relax, Principality. I’m not here to mess with you. That’s more Gabriel’s forte.”

Suddenly, Aziraphale understood. The Archangel’s avoidance of him had less to do with his wings and more with the part they played in it. “ _ You were there, _ ” he whispered, hoarse.

“You remember?” Raphael’s eyebrows jumped up, and he leaped away and Aziraphale lunged for him, pulled back by the chains.

“You’re the reason I’m like this? You helped Gabriel?  _ Bastards,  _ all of you!” Aziraphale would pull these chains apart with his bare hands, he would reveal the corruption of the supposedly most holy, and he would make sure they could never harm anyone else again. He fought even harder against his bindings. “No, I don’t remember a thing, but you better hope I don’t. For your sake, and for everyone else’s.” 

“I healed you, actually, back then.” Raphael sniffed like he was deeply insulted. “You’re welcome, by the way. And I’m here to  _ help  _ you, which I definitely won’t do if you attack me the moment I take those chains off.”

“What?” Aziraphale froze.

“Yeah, not all of us are that bad,  _ shocker.  _ No, what happened is I spent a bit too much time on Earth, picked up a little something called compassion on the way, and now I feel morally obligated to help you after what I did messing up your immortal life.” Raphael let out a chuckle. “Also, I really hate Gabriel and would like to see somebody knock him down a couple pegs.”

“Get in line,” grumbled Aziraphale. “He has many demons captured, along with—”

“—With your hellish lover, yes yes, I know. Questionable choice, but I can see the allure.”

“Can you get me out of here?” said Aziraphale, fidgeting impatiently. Who knew how long he had? “And is there any way you could bring my wings back to normal?”

Raphael pursed his lips, going quiet. He wouldn’t meet Aziraphale’s eyes. “Here’s the thing. I would, really, I would. God knows I feel sorry enough about it. And I don’t usually feel regret, but this has got to be the exception.” He sighed. “But this is Gabriel’s punishment and divine wrath isn’t exactly reversible.”

Aziraphale nodded. He thought as much, but it still stung to know he was permanently trapped like this. 

“But what I  _ can _ do…” Raphael made a complicated gesture with his hand. The chains fell to the floor with a rattling clang, leaving Aziraphale free. “Is  _ this _ . Now, you should probably hurry up before my ever-so charming sisters realize the entire thing was a ruse and come running after me. He led Aziraphale to the very outskirts of Heaven, to the pearly Gates that swung open easily.

“Thank you,” said Aziraphale as they walked outside.

“Don’t mention it.” Raphael laughed. “Really, I could get in lots of trouble for this, helping you.”

“I doubt that.” If Gabriel could get away with every appalling action, then Raphael should be fine with just one misstep. 

“Well,” said Raphael, a small smile tugging at his lips. This wasn’t the false look of cheer Gabriel put on. No, this was perfectly genuine. “Good luck, Principality. I’ll see you back in Heaven if you make it.” Then, he vanished, leaving nothing in his wake but some white smoke. Aziraphale took one last look at the Heavenly Gates before turning away. There was nothing left for him here. He walked outside the borders of God’s Kingdom, trying to remember the last time he was here.

Crowley had told him that he fought Gabriel, with a flaming sword and a fierce sort of look that could strike fear into anyone it was cast upon. Crowley’s eyes were wide with awe when he looked at Aziraphale that day, like he couldn’t believe that same Principality was the one currently speaking to him. Aziraphale hoped he could live up to that now. He didn’t have a flaming sword or even Grace. But what he did have was his hope, that only grew with every breath. And he needed to be who Crowley believed him to be: brave and righteous and willing to do anything for an idea of love.

Aziraphale looked down, where morning was dawning. Below him was the celestial staircase, the top spire of the cathedral showing itself from in between clouds. This was the only way down. Letting out a breath, he began to descend. And when the stairs vanished, he threw himself onto the arched roof of the cathedral and began to climb down. 

_ For Crowley.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so. gabriel is an asshole but what else is new??  
> poor crowley, poor everyone.  
> I would say I'm sorry but I'm not. Also! Raphael!!  
> Please tell me what you thought <3


	13. Libero

They came for him just as the sun was starting to rise.

Crowley was shaking, his very bones coming apart as his wings flickered in and out of reality. Tears flowed constantly from his puffy eyes, pupils little more than thin slits. He let a pathetic groan cleave from his hoarse throat when the door opened once more. Gabriel's face betrayed no sign of what occurred only hours ago, a faint smug smile tugging at his lips.  
  
He crouched down to level his eyes with Crowley's, taking his chin and tilting it up. 

"Reconsidering?" His voice was soaked in faux-sympathy. 

"Go to Hell," hissed Crowley with every single bit of viciousness he could muster. 

Gabriel laughed, a rich, cruel sound. "No, I'm afraid that's all you." He pulled Crowley to his feet by the hair, ignoring the protest of pain. His hand came to rest on the back of Crowley's neck, and although Crowley wanted to recoil from the touch, he couldn't help the relieved shudder that left him when Gabriel soothed his spiritual wounds. Of course, it was all temporary. "Do you know why I didn't force myself on you, demon?"

Crowley couldn't help but laugh, but it sounded weak and strained. "Consider me lucky."

"I spared you your free will because..." Gabriel held Crowley's jaw. "Because when your soul sizzles away in a vat of holy water, all of your brethren to follow, I want you to know that it's all your fault. And you could have easily saved everyone, if not for your selfishness." He leaned in, an unspoken challenge in his eyes. Crowley waited until the last second, until their lips almost touched, before spitting right in his face. The glob of saliva slid down his cheek before vanishing. 

With a disgusted cough, Gabriel slapped Crowley, hard enough that the metallic sting of blood filled his mouth once more. A strange look came over him, and the hand that was still in Crowley’s curls twisted tight. “When Delilah cut Samson’s hair, he lost his strength. Will you lose your damning temptation?”

Before Crowley could quite realize what was happening, Gabriel’s sword was in his hand and it was swinging through the air, burning Crowley’s scalp as red locks fell to the floor. 

Crowley stumbled back, squeezing his eyes shut. He ran a hand through his hair, only to find that it barely covered his neck. “S’that all? I can take a haircut.” Even as he spoke, his words trembled and strained along the edges. Chopping off his hair by the sword was just adding insult to injury, trying to reduce Crowley’s physical form until it was no longer an issue. But Crowley wouldn’t let it work. 

“Really? Then perhaps something else.” With an almost pitying smirk, Gabriel reached behind Crowley. 

Addled as he was, Crowley didn't realize his wings were being summoned until it was too late. Gabriel's fist closed around the downy feathers at the base and yanked. Crowley couldn't help it—he screamed, collapsing in on himself until his legs hit the floor. Gabriel stepped forward, pressing the toe of his boot against Crowley's chest, forcing his wings to flatten across the consecrated ground. Another scream, although this one turned shrill before becoming silent. A singed smell filled the air, and Crowley writhed. The only time he could remember such pain was during his Fall, and even then, there wasn't the triumphant leer on Gabriel's face. 

And then, the worst torture of all: Gabriel’s eyes, burning like a brand.

He walked out, binding Crowley’s wrists with holy shackles as he did so. Crowley lay on the floor, looking up at the skylight, trying to piece himself back together. So he was going to die. Aziraphale wasn’t coming to save him, God wouldn’t intercede, and Crowley was now expected to walk out towards the vat of holy water waiting for him. A cold sense of hopelessness weighed on his chest, even as his wings felt torn apart with agony. But Crowley had something very few other demons or angels had: an imagination. 

He would walk and face his executioner with an even face and he would vanish from existence while his mind filled itself with memories of his and Aziraphale’s time together. Crowley couldn’t ask for a better fate. Blinking away the tears in his eyes, he peeled himself off the floor. Each step took him closer to his death. Out of the chapel he went, biting down so he didn’t scream when he entered the chancel. 

_The wonderfully bewildered look on Aziraphale’s face as he tumbled past the tent flap, his cheeks going red at Crowley’s teasing._

Crowley gritted his teeth as he passed by the altar, all but running for the doors of the Iconostasis. The blessed wood stung his palms as he pushed it open, eyes falling upon an empty hall. So the demons had been transported outside, then. That was the most regrettable part; even after Crowley died, they would also suffer. For a moment, he almost regretted not agreeing to Gabriel. But he kept imagining, kept going. 

_How Aziraphale watched him as he danced, not in judgment or desire to own, but simple awe, lips slightly parted as Crowley whirled through the air._

He would also miss dancing, he realized. It had felt so nice, to become weightless in front of a crowd, to be showered in their applause. Nobody had ever really understood it except for Aziraphale, who had never been anything except deeply impressed. Once he even asked Crowley to dance with him. Crowley, flushing bright red, had agreed. Now he wished he had asked again, if only to have another moment to remember. 

_Aziraphale’s curious quiet as he listened to Crowley’s thoughts on free will, the most honest conversation both of them had in a while._

Crowley walked down from the elevated part for the choir, passing over the steps that Anathema had previously cursed. A smile tugged at his lips. Hopefully she was faring alright, with Knight-In-Shining-Armor following her around like a lost puppy and half the guard vexed in a search for the witch. The main fall echoed his footsteps, and the pain shaking his bones only grew, until it was a chore to move forward at all.

_The fact that Aziraphale had saved him. Threw him a nectarine and carried him up the stairs and showed him the bookshelves. And Crowley had kissed his cheek that night before flying away._

He was almost done walking, the doors of the cathedral rapidly approaching. Crowley was not ready to die, not when everything was in his grasp. But what could he do but stumble forward, wings beginning to smoke. Was there something that happened after too much time on consecrated ground? He was about to find out, since he apparently broke the record. Memories flashed by him, so bright and lively that they almost seemed real.

_Aziraphale meeting him in the Garden. Aziraphale watching him dance with fire and then getting drinks afterward. Aziraphale… confessing his love and kissing Crowley like it was the most natural thing in the world._

If Crowley could choose one memory to carry him into oblivion, it would be the evening spent on the tunnel alcove. The way his angel looked—so beautiful yet so soft as he reached out to cradle Crowley’s jaw, pulling him closer in the darkness. How their heartbeats fell into the same rhythm and how everything seemed to hold still as their feelings unfolded and they knew everything. Crowley wanted to hold on to that as long as he could, remembering the taste of Aziraphale’s lips, the thrum of his pulse, the tremor of his voice, until the very end. 

_Aziraphale’s wide blue eyes that shone like a stained glass window. Ethereal, close to shattering at a moment’s notice. How he vanished before Crowley could say what he truly needed to. How they would never see each other again, not in this life or the next._

As Crowley left the cathedral, doors swinging open in front of him, his primaries caught on fire. And by the time he was outside, his feathers were burning with holy flame. 

_I love you,_ he thought as he stepped onto the stage. His wings would be extinguished soon enough.

* * *

“I’m so incredibly sorry, Anathema.” Newt’s words were barely more than a whisper in the dawning sky. A constricting weight tugged at his heart, making breathing all but impossible. They had finally stopped running, curling up against a gnarled oak while keeping their bodies hidden by the bushes. The guards had passed by, Lyssa marching right past their hiding spot. _Find them,_ she had growled out, only becoming more frustrated when it became apparent that the woods had swallowed them up. 

Neither of them spoke for the remained of the day, save for when Anathema got up, reached inside the tree hollow and tossed aside bits of twine before emerging with some dried meat and a flask of water. With a shiver, Newt realized this was her backup plan, was she ever to be discovered. Anathema sat back down and they shared the meal in silence, even though the chance of discovery was all but gone. Then, just to be safe, they fell asleep. Well, Anathema did.

Newt stayed awake, consumed by a terrible kind of guilt that ate at him constantly. Why had he gone to Shadwell? He should’ve just let the guards think he was dead rather than put both Anathema and her home in danger. When he finally managed to drift off, it was light and restless, tinged with the fear of being caught and arrested. And when he woke, Anathema was crying. Although she was perfectly silent, tears gathered in her eyes, like she was trying and failing to hold them back. 

He tried to reach out to her, but she pulled away. The rustle of the leaves was louder than their voices, so Newt allowed himself to speak, so quietly it almost didn’t exist, to apologize for everything that happened. “I had no idea. I swear, I never would’ve put you in harm’s way or allowed the guards to find your cottage.”

She wiped at her eyes, gathering herself back together. When she looked at Newt, there was no sadness in her expression. “Then _why_?”

He sighed. “I went to resign, to tie up all loose ends, to make sure—” He cut himself off, only to realize that he had nothing to lose anymore. “—well, to make sure I could stay with you. Because that’s all I ever wanted, to be with you.”

“And now you can’t?”

“Who says?”

Anathema ran a hand through her hair. “I’m a witch, you really think they’re going to leave me alone as long as they know where I live?” Her harsh voice softened somewhat. “Tell me any possible way we could be together. I’m listening, Newt. Tell me how this,” she gestured between them. “Could work out when I’m always going to be on the run?”

“I’ll go with you,” Newt reached for her hand and she let him take it. “As long as you still want me, I’ll follow you wherever you go. Whether that’s to another home or another city or even further.” He pressed his lips to her knuckles, hearing her breathe a sad laugh.

“I don’t even know where I’m supposed to go anymore,” she said. Newt waited, waited for those words that he had only said a couple of hours ago, under the pressure of capture. _I love you._ Did she? He held his breath, but as soon as she opened her mouth to speak, she closed it again, rising to her feet and pushing the brush out of the way to look over the forest. She didn’t meet Newt’s eyes. “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you anything. It’s not that I blame you...well, maybe I am a bit bitter, but it’s that people like me weren’t meant for long-term partnerships. It’s all fun and games until the law pursues you at every turn for something you were born with. And with so much going on, I just don’t think—”

She stammered to a stop, eyes going wide. Newt jumped up as well, gaze immediately falling on two angels. Both with short hair and matching scowls. And both had spotted them. His blood ran cold. These angels were from the festival, the ones that had appeared next to Gabriel. 

“I am the Archangel Uriel What is your purpose here, humans?” The one with darker curls barked, marching forward to examine them. 

Newt spoke before Anathema could. “I am the Captain of the Guard, bringing this witch in for arrest.” He grabbed Anathema’s wrist, holding it up as a demonstration. She played along, struggling feebly against his grip. Could angels sense lies? Hopefully not, or everything was about to get very messy. “I pursued her through the woods. Here, witness the taint of magic on her hands.”

The other angel, Michael, maybe, looked pensive. She turned to Uriel. “He said there was a disturbance here. Perhaps…”

“Are you here about the cottage?” Newt needed to think fast. “That is where I finally captured the witch. If you would be so kind as to point me in Gabriel’s direction, I will be on my way.” 

“No! Let go of me, foul guard!” Anathema’s tone was hilariously fake, and it took all of Newt’s effort to keep from bursting into laughter. Hopefully the angels would let them go quickly, and wouldn’t think to press for details concerning exactly how Newt had caught her or what he was planning to do. 

“Silence, witch.” Newt looked up at the two angels, who seemed to be involved in a staring contest with each other. _Telepathy._ He had read stories about the powers of angels, but he wasn’t exactly the expert in differentiating fiction from fact considering he didn’t even know angels existed until about a week ago. 

Finally, Uriel met his eyes. “Tell me, Captain, are you aware of what is to happen this morning?”

“I...uh,” Newt’s words died on his tongue. 

Anathema picked up the act, brilliant as ever. “This terrible man spent hours pursuing me, and I cast many wicked spells to throw him off track.” Their combined ability to lie was absolutely terrible, but Michael and Uriel seemed to be completely fooled.

Michael nodded. “Outside the cathedral, the city gathers to witness the execution of thirty demons, along with Crowley, the Serpent of Eden. The presence of every guard is required.”

Next to him, Anathema froze. “Demons, you say?” she squeaked. She didn’t have to elaborate for Newt to understand. This was her purpose, the whole reason she had her book—even if it had been strangely lost the last few days. They needed to get over there now. He pulled her along, as gentle as possible even with the eyes of the Archangels watching him. 

“In that case, we... _I_ must be on my way. No use in keeping Gabriel waiting.” Newt’s mind raced, and he itched to escape and ask Anathema what was happening, because the look in her eyes told him she knew. 

Michael tilted her head. “We can take the prisoner from you.”

“ _No,_ ” said Newt a little too quickly. “I’m sure Gabriel would want to see the fruits of my efforts.”

Uriel nodded. “Very well then.” Her body was consumed in blinding Light, and when it was gone, dark spots danced in Newt’s vision and the two angels were gone. He could finally breathe again, but his relief was short-lived.

“Newt, he has the demons,” Anathema grew louder with panic. “They can’t exactly do whatever their plan is if they don’t exist.” And _Crowley._ She knew he would never abandon the others, which meant Gabriel had him as well. “We have to go, _now._ There’s no time to waste, not when…” even the thought was unbearable. Tugging Newt along, she turned back when he wasn’t moving. “What is it?”

“It’s just,” Newt chewed his lip. “How do you know we can even help?” 

Anathema shook her head with a smile. “It’s called faith, Newt. I might not have it in God,” she shrugged. “But I have it in Agnes and her prophecies. And this is my destiny. Hopefully it’s yours as well.” When she brought her dark eyes up to meet Newt’s, that familiar glimmer of hope in her eyes, he could do nothing but agree.

“I trust you.” Everything else could wait, he thought as they started running, sprinting towards the cathedral. Right now, they had a destiny to fulfill. 

* * *

Anathema ground to a halt before the cathedral. She heard Newt inhale sharply, and she mimicked the movement, unable to stop the growing horror within her. 

What was once an expanse of cobblestone in front of the church was now crowded with people—so many that it appeared the entire city was assembled. Set up near the outside steps was a stage, not unlike the one used for hanging, with a lever that shifted the wood aside to allow the guilty party to fall through. Although there was no rope, only a large vat of what looked like water beneath it. Aside from those watching, three large cages were placed by the stage as well. 

Ten per one, she supposed, with a shudder. 

Beside her, Newt frowned. “Are they going to make them _swim_ to death?” 

Anathema gulped, all the expectations from her childhood catching up. This was her purpose. This is what she was meant to do. “Holy water, Newt.” Her heart sank. “That won’t only kill their temporary bodies, it’ll destroy them completely. No coming back.”

Newt’s breath caught, “Hey, before we risk our lives, I just want to say—”

Anathema all but flinched away. “Please don’t.”

“—I love you. You don’t have to respond, I just wanted you to know.”

It was impossible to truly pinpoint her feelings for Newt. Actually, it was painfully simple. The problem was what she was going to do about it. Their short time together was the best she’d ever had, but there couldn’t be guarantees in the long term. Would he want to settle down in secrecy with a witch or even go on the run? What would happen when another tight spot happened and he had to choose between his authorities and her? He said he loved her now, but what would happen weeks, months, years later, when it all became too much?

Anathema was torn. But she gathered her focus together, piece by piece, putting Newt aside for now. They were allies, at the very least, on the same team. Everything else could be figured out later, once they figured out how to save thirty souls from eternal death. “Alright.” She took a took breath. “We need to get to the cages. Shouldn’t be that difficult, considering the crowd. Just don’t let the actual guards see you, or there’ll be Hell to pay.” 

Newt nodded. “Let’s go.” 

They shouldered their way through the mass of people, always staying within sight of the other. Anathema jerked her head towards the leftmost cage, the farthest from the stage. No use in attracting Gabriel’s attention just yet. Finally, she stumbled before the first group of demons, squinting at their faces, but finding nothing familiar. “I’m here to help,” she hissed under her breath. 

One of the demons, a creature with long teeth and even longer claws, laughed. “Good luck, human. This is blessed metal.”

“I’m a witch,” insisted Anathema. An idea began to form in her mind, but she brushed it aside. It was too dangerous, especially when they could come up with a different method just as easily. “And I’m Crowley’s friend.”

The demon shrieked. “ _Crowley?_ ” 

Anathema perked up. “So you _do_ know where he is?”

“Gabriel deigned to offer him _personal treatment,”_ the demon seethed. Smoke rose around her, and at first, Anathema thought it was natural, until she looked down and saw the bars of the cage glowing, burning the others like it was consecrated ground. “Crowley will be the first one to face his punishment.”

A chill washed through Anathema’s veins. “I can get you out of here. Or at the very least, make the cage not holy anymore, so you can use your powers. What’s your name?”

“Trinal. How would you do that?”

Anathema recalled what she had done in the cathedral for Crowley, hexing the steps so that he could safely stand. And what happened with Newt, canceling out the holy fire with a curse. Something like that could work, if she did it right. “Neutralize the divinity with a curse of my own, making the metal even ground for either type of power.” She turned to Newt. “That’s how I healed you.”

“But you don’t have anything on you now, do you?” said Newt, going slightly green. “Everything was left behind in the cottage.”

Anathema hesitated, the expectant eyes of demons on her. She had no choice. In one quick sentence, she blurted it out. “ _I think I might have given you a blood curse_ ,” she mumbled to Newt.

“What?”

“The holiness from Gabriel’s sword would’ve killed you, so I cast a spell to get it out but I don’t think the spell left completely and I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think it was a big deal and—”

Newt let out a whoop of laughter. “Anathema, you’re a _genius.”_ Without hesitating, he reached his hand through the cage, holding it out to Trinal. One quick slash of her claws later, and his blood was dripping from his palm. He wrapped his fingers around one of the bars. For a second, nothing happened. Anathema made a sound of alarm. When she suggested it, she didn’t expect for Newt to go through with it so eagerly. And cutting his palm, too, which was dangerous enough as it was. 

But then, the holy light flickered, then faded, then vanished altogether. The demons relaxed, the pain dissipating. They glanced around in wonder, eyes falling upon Newt, who was wincing. “...did it work?” He took his hand off the metal cautiously. Trinal flicked her claw and the bars of the cage started to crumble apart. Anathema stopped her.

“Wait, no. You have to wait for me to rescue the others and Crowley. If you get free now, there would be too much chaos. On my signal, break out, but not until then. Okay?”

After a hesitant second, Trinal nodded. “Thank you. And thank you for your sacrifice,” she said to Newt, who let out a nervous chuckle. Holding his hand to his chest, they made their way to the second cage, where the previous events had already attracted the attention of the other demons. Without much fanfare, Newt pressed his cut against the cage and let the corruption of his blood override the Light. Anathema relayed the same message to a demon with spiraling horns. _Just wait, alright?_ But when they got to the third and final cage, a disturbance came from the stage. 

The crowd gasped. As Newt’s blood did its work, Anathema turned to look, only to feel a sick dread build inside her.

Crowley walked out of the cathedral, his hair cropped jaggedly around his ears, eyes with pupils so thin they were almost nonexistent, his clothes torn. And his wings, once so beautifully iridescent, now burned, scorched feathers flying with the wind. Despite the grimace on his face, and the Light around his wrists, he walked with pride down the steps and then up the ramp leading him up to the stage. Anathema didn’t miss how Gabriel’s smile widened at the sight. When Crowley reached him, propelled by an invisible force, Gabriel addressed the crowd, the guards with their scowls and spears only solidifying his point.

“I bring before you this morning the lowest of the low, the most foul of criminals, the demon responsible for the Fall of mankind. Tempter Crowley, Serpent of Eden. He has been accused and found guilty of treason and sin like no other. But not to fear: today I will rid him from this Earth and all the kingdoms thereof. His wicked deeds shall have no place in this blessed city, and neither will those of his brethren.” 

The demons in the cages stayed stubbornly silent. So did the crowd, but after some glares from the guards, a few halfhearted cheers sounded up. Newt removed his hand with a wince of pain, pressing it to his chest to stop the bleeding. The demons were free, or would be in a few seconds. She had succeeded, with Newt’s help. But even then, she couldn’t stop what was about to occur. Anathema could do nothing but stare as Gabriel looked at Crowley, something so terrible in his eyes that she could barely complete the thought. Gabriel held the lever, the only thing keeping the wood floor between Crowley and the holy water.

“Do you have anything to say, demon, before I sentence you to death by holy water?”

“Yeah.” Crowley’s eyes flashed, jaw set in a determined line. “God help us all.”

Gabriel pulled the lever. 

* * *

Aziraphale was running out of time. 

He clambered down the roof of the cathedral, grabbing onto any possible handhold, until he was all by sliding off. The dawn sky was almost blinding, the rosy light like a taunt to his eyes. During his entire climb, he had only risked one look down, too afraid of what he would see. A stage, a vat of holy water, and a crowd of people to rival even the Jeweled Parade. Rage rose in him, only a motivation to move faster, to rescue Crowley before he would perish in front of hundreds of watching eyes. That was the worst part, how it had all been made into a spectacle to be viewed like nothing more than a dance performance. 

Swinging his body down, he landed in the bell tower with a _thud,_ all the air knocked from his lungs. He scrambled up just as quickly, taking only a glance at the stage. And what he saw would forever be burned into his mind. Crowley, body bruised and wings on fire, walking towards Gabriel. A pang reverberated through Aziraphale’s heart, enough to make his very soul tremble, like a sheet of glass that was only now beginning to crack. Some unnameable emotion clawed at his throat and dragged a wounded sound from him. Every breath stung as if the air was made up of gravel. 

Aziraphale grabbed a rope, most likely used for construction workers to renovate safely. Now, he tied one end around the body of a gargoyle, the other around his wrist, grabbing onto the rope for extra balance. He climbed out on the balcony, looking down at the scene below. Gabriel was speaking, but Crowley’s face was completely blank. The desperation was back, like a wild animal trapped in Aziraphale’s chest, trying to tear its way out. He steeled his nerves, trying to blink away the dizziness that threatened to overtake him. Hopefully this would work. It had to. 

Aziraphale had no idea what he would do if it didn’t. 

He jumped from the cathedral, using everything in his power to swing himself forward. There was a brief second of weightlessness, and then he was flying without wings, heading right for the stage. Someone in the crowd gasped, and the sound caught on until everybody could see Aziraphale, wings and all, soaring through the air. 

“ _God help us all,”_ said Crowley, and the words echoed in Aziraphale’s mind as he extended up other arm and scooped Crowley away by the waist right as Gabriel pulled the lever. They landed on the very edge of the stage and Aziraphale’s eyes locked with Gabriel’s, which had gone furiously violet. Nobody spoke, but Aziraphale grinned, tipping his head before he and Crowley started swinging in the opposite direction, headed right for the cathedral. Crowley held on as tightly as he could with his hands bound, heartbeat faster than what seemed possible.

“I’m in love with you, angel.” Crowley had never looked so radiant, despite his ragged appearance. “I knew you’d come back for me, I _knew_ it,” he laughed as soon as they landed on the church steps. 

Aziraphale untangled himself from the rope and shook his arm out. He didn’t miss how Crowley flinched away from what was meant to be a reassuring touch. “Always, my dear.”

Crowley laughed again, but there was something hollow about it as he folded his arms together. Almost defensive, like he was trying to hold himself in one piece. “Hope you don’t mind the haircut, Gabriel’s a dick.” 

Aziraphale wanted to reach out and touch his hair, but thought better of it. Crowley still looked like a stray gust of wind could knock him over. And Gabriel would be coming for them. He looked over at the crowd, only to hear a yell and a great scrape of metal. The cages all disintegrated, demons pouring out with triumphant whoops and cheers. Two figures sprinted towards Aziraphale, humans, by the looks of it. He immediately moved to protect Crowley, who was leaning against the church, the last bits of fire flickering out, leaving his wings cruelly burnt, some of the feathers even missing. 

“Crowley!” Shouted the woman, tugging her male friend along as the got closer. 

Crowley’s eyes slid open. “Anathema?” He even sounded weak. “Don’t worry, angel, s’just a witch.”

“A witch?” Aziraphale barely had enough time to speak before the woman threw her arms around him. 

“Thank you. Thank you so much,” she babbled. Seemingly remembering herself, she pulled away from the hug with a small smile. “Me and my...friend, Newt, got the other demons out.” 

The man looked rather worse for wear, blood staining his shirt in spots. He chuckled nervously. “Just my hand,” he said, raising it in the air. “Funny story, really, I—” 

Something burst into flame. The stage, now abandoned, blazed up suddenly. Crowley rolled his eyes. “That’d be Arnoch with the hellfire. Can’t really blame him, doubt I would want holy water so close to me.” The crowd had started panicking, fleeing the scene, trying to get away from the upcoming clash between the demons and the guardsmen, who were readying their weapons and advancing on them. 

Aziraphale turned, only to find Saniel and Neriah also appear next to him with a small burst of Light. Saniel smiled apologetically, while Neriah held up a book. “Hey! Human!” 

Anathema’s eyes went comically wide. “You _stole_ my book.” She spluttered, going red, as Neriah stumbled through an apology. 

“Sorry, sorry, you told me to hold it and I left with it and I panicked, showed it to Saniel, we gave it a read and—”

Saniel turned her gaze to Crowley. “—We know how to bring the demons up to Heaven. That _is_ what you’re trying to do, right? I just figured, considering everything.” She passed the book over to Anathema, and it flipped to a certain page.

Anathema read it out. “The sky stairs in the did consecrate toweth'r shalt leadeth the darkened.”

“There!” exclaimed Saniel. “It’s the celestial steps, Aziraphale. Through the cathedral.”

Aziraphale had no time to process his friends’ involvement in this entire plot or the other new arrivals. He looked over at Crowley expectantly. Crowley waved his hand vaguely. “Yeah...think there was something about...staircases last time,” Crowley swayed on his feet, looking ready to be sick. 

Aziraphale moved to steady him. “Listen, I have to get him out of here before Gabriel shows up. Can you two,” he gestured at Saniel and Neriah. “Figure out a way to let the demons walk in the cathedral?”

They nodded.

Anathema patted Newt’s shoulder. “I don’t know much about what’s going on Up There, but we can always help get the guards away from the demons. Rally the people and all.” They ran back into the crowd. The two angels vanished. Aziraphale and Crowley were left alone.

“Hey,” said Aziraphale, the memory of their first meeting fresh upon his mind. “Can you fly?” He cast a worried glance at Crowley’s mangled wings. 

Crowley fixed him with a strange look, his fangs shining. “Can I—does it _look_ like I can fly?” Even as he was speaking, he began to sway. And then, the strangest thing happened. His skin began to shrink, scales crawling over his body as it lengthened, his hair turning into red markings around his head. He collapsed, as a serpent, on the ground. Cautiously, Aziraphale touched him. No movement, but his tongue did flicker out. 

Scooping up the snake in his arms, Aziraphale ran into the cathedral.

He had rescued Crowley, but they still needed to survive Gabriel’s wrath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HERE IT GOEEEEES. This chapter took forever to write, and I really hoep you enjoyed it!  
> A note on Lyssa's name: It's a joke from the original book, derived from Fleur De Lys because I'm a Hugo nerd.  
> I appreciate every comment so much <3


	14. Fatum

Everything had erupted into chaos, starting from when that angel swung in to rescue Crowley, and only getting worse when the rest of the demons had escaped. Under orders from Gabriel, now gone from his place on the stage, the guards swarmed over the demons, swinging their swords, their spears, anything that could be used to hurt. Meanwhile, the civilians gathered just gaped, trying to run as far from the fighting as they could. No blood, human or otherwise, had been spilled yet, but it was only a matter of time before someone got hurt. And then there was the stage, the vat of holy water being burned away, hellfire rising increasingly higher, but not spreading.

And now, Newt was running into the thick of it. 

This was just like the war, albeit with less structure. Also, Anathema was at his side, and he’d be damned before any harm would come to her. He veered around a demon with a tiger’s face, who was busy fending off three guards, but there was something off in the way they fought.  _ Like they were trying not to wound,  _ Newt realized with a chill. While the guards would have no problem in dispatching the demons, creatures trying to attain Heaven would have more qualms. It was a strange plan, all in all, but from what he had learned, these being cared strongly enough about their divinity that they were going to risk their lives to get it back. 

The morning air was filled with the clash of metal, panicked shouts, warnings hissed. Newt tried to orient himself. He had to think. There was no way to safely incapacitate the guards without hurting them, and the demons couldn’t back down either, since they were vastly outnumbered. But the guards were still people, just like the citizens trying to escape. And if he could somehow unite them, then the fighting would have to stop.

“Anathema!” he had to shout just to make his voice heard. “Up there.” Newt pointed to a small piece of the stage that hadn’t quite lit on fire yet. Anathema paused, looked at him like he was crazy, and then sprinted towards it, leaping up onto the wood. She stood up, waving her hands to get the crowd’s attention. Only a few people turned to look at first, but more eyes fell upon her as she started speaking.

“For years the angels have ruled over us, all at the pretense of holy kindness. Does burning our city sound  _ angelic _ ? Taking over our authority? Does  _ this _ ,” she gestured to the fighting amongst them, the guards pushing back the demons, who refused to truly fight back. “Look  _ holy  _ to you?” The people murmured amongst themselves, and encouraging look from Newt, Anathema kept talking. “We will not stand for this! Right now, we have to rise up, defend the beings unfairly persecuted, defend ourselves and our city from those who have tried to suppress it.”

A cheer rose up and quickly caught on. The sound only grew, and as did Anathema’s impassioned speech. “Will you stand for this?” she said, the fire burning behind her.  _ No,  _ came the crowd’s answer, as young and old came together to realize one thing simultaneously: Gabriel was a  _ prick.  _ And what Crowley had started that day on the festival, was concluded when the Archangel’s hold over the city twisted, bent, and broke. 

She beamed, glancing at Newt. “Then let’s show them what happens when you turn our own guard against us.” Pointing to the cathedral, she said one final thing before she jumped down. “Don’t let anybody in there.” As if to punctuate, the piece of stage she was standing on collapsed, too burnt to stand. Anathema leaped away just in time. Newt could only stare in awe, because at Anathema’s speech, people actually  _ followed.  _

Newt had gotten a fair amount of pep-talks from his General, on the battlefield. He had also given a few. And maybe he was biased, but if he had to rank them all, Anathema’s would be at the very top. As much as he wanted to move in and kiss her, he refrained. There would be another time for that. Now, they watched as the crowd swarmed to the side of the demons, making it impossible for the guards to swing their swords, for fear of hitting a human. 

Newt looked around, squinting through the haze of hellfire. He didn’t see Gabriel, which was worrying. But who he did see was Lyssa, barking commands at the guards to force open the cathedral doors. As well as the fight was going, there was still the looming danger of casualties, and the only one who could call off the guards was the Captain. Well. 

“Stay here,” he called to Anathema, already running towards Lyssa. She was ambitious and ruthless, but she wasn’t needlessly cruel. If he could persuade her that Gabriel was wrong, that she needed to stop this, then maybe they would stand a chance. 

“Lyssa!” he ground to a halt in front of her. 

She didn’t look surprised to see him, only exasperated. “I should’ve known you would be here, with your little witch friend.”

Newt held his ground. “Stop this. Right now, before one of the civilians you’re sworn to protect gets hurt.”

Lyssa laughed. “The only things getting hurt are  _ those _ ,” she gestured to one of the demons, a mass of flies buzzing all around them, who was trying to gather her brethren together. “ _ Abominations, _ ” she spat out, turning back to Newt. “I’m only doing my job, you have to understand. It’s nothing personal.”

“Lyssa, call off the guard.” If Newt had to fight her, he would, no matter how much he disliked hurting someone who was supposed to be on his side. 

She shook her head. “Only person who can call off the guard is Gabriel, and I doubt he—”

“And me,” came a voice. They whirled around to see Judge Shadwell walking towards them with a grimace. “Don’t tell me you’d forgotten about me.” 

As happy as Newt should’ve been to see the Judge here, all he felt was cold anger. This was the man who had betrayed him and Anathema. And for what? A job that would keep him privileged enough to continue his experiments? Shadwell gave Newt an apologetic smile. “Sorry, lad. I should’ve stood up to Gabriel that very first day you came here. Or when he told me to break things off with my friend. Or during the fire. Or when he ordered me to have you arrested.” He sighed. “Look at what an old fool I’ve been, huh? Well, it’s no matter.”

“Judge?” Lyssa raised an eyebrow. 

“Lyssa Fleur, Captain of the Guard, you are hereby relieved from your duties. In the case of no available Captain, all authority goes to the Judge.” Shadwell spoke evenly, like he was reciting a script. But then he grew louder, until he was almost bellowing. “ _ Guards, retreat! _ ”

It caught on like a chant.  _ Retreat, retreat, retreat,  _ and although it took a minute for all the guards to drop their weapons, the fighting had stopped. The demons regrouped, vanishing in bursts of shadow and reappearing together, off to the side. The humans watched them with expressions of awed fear. And there was quiet. Then, he heard a voice, Anathema’s, cheering.

“To peace!”

Newt echoed her. “To peace!” 

Lyssa looked at him, wide-eyed, and then dropped her sword. “To peace,” she whispered, defeated. 

Anathema was running towards him, and he met her on the steps of the cathedral. She threw her arms around him, grinning against his shoulder. “We did it, Newt.” Her heart was pounding faster than he’d ever heard it, and as much as he wanted to stay here forever, it still wasn’t over. The stage still burned, hellfire billowing up. And somewhere, Gabriel was still lurking. Newt looked up and then suddenly wished he didn’t.

“Anathema.” His voice sounded hollow. He pointed up to the bell tower. “Look.”

* * *

“Sanny…” Neriah looked over the balcony, at the fighting. The guards that weren’t trying to dispatch the demons were advancing towards the cathedral. “What do we do?” 

She had never been one for uncertainties or indecision, that was all Saniel, most of the time. But now, she was torn between her hereditary allegiance and loyalty to her friend. These were  _ demons _ , vicious creatures of the night that would like to see them all Fallen. But somehow, against all odds, Aziraphale had gotten himself embroiled in the conflict. And then there was the witch, whose book had prophecies Neriah couldn’t hope to decipher. 

But there was one clear motif throughout it: Heaven was wrong. Demons could be forgiven;  _ these  _ ones specifically. And although Neriah wouldn’t betray her side, not for anything except maybe Saniel, she still knew that Aziraphale’s lover was here. Nobody had told her, of course, but it was painfully obvious in the way he protected the serpent. It made her think of Saniel and how she was feeling about all of this, but she shook the thought away. She wouldn’t disobey Heaven and stop the guards from attacking, but she could still keep them out of the cathedral, keep Aziraphale and the serpent safe.

“I don’t know,” Saniel began to pace. “What on Earth could allow demons to walk on holy ground, save for a miracle?”

Neriah knew that even with their Grace combined, it wouldn’t be enough to hold thirty demons. “Hellfire could,” she mused. “Assuming there was a way to get it into a form that wouldn’t burn the building, or us, for that matter.”

They both fell silent. Neriah had no idea what kind of doubts Saniel was having, if she was even having them at all. Obviously, neither of them had ever liked Gabriel; there was something very off in the way he treated Aziraphale, lording himself over the angel like it was his God-given right. But even then, evil was still evil at the end of the day, and nobody had a desire to Fall. Or worse, end up like Aziraphale.

Nobody knew what happened to him, and the Archangels refused to speak of it. Even Aziraphale didn’t seem to know, and Neriah had stopped asking after a while. But then the Jeweled Parade happened, and Aziraphale met the demon, and it all went downhill from there. 

“You think it’s our fault?” Saniel sounded unusually quiet, indirect beams of light catching in her eyes. 

Neriah shrugged. “We were the ones who convinced him to go, to experience Earth. Didn’t know he would go and experience Hell as well.”

“We’re still his friends though, right?” 

A sigh breathed its way from Neriah’s lips. “Of course we are. I just...I don’t want to make it seem like I’m choosing the demons over our home.”

Saniel moved forward and took Neriah’s hand. “I don’t know about you, but that,” she looked over at the humans trapped in the battle, the hellfire burning beneath them, Gabriel’s sudden disappearance. “Doesn’t look like Heaven’s will to me.” 

“You think they can be forgiven?”

“I’m willing to try.” 

Neriah nodded. That was enough for her. She began to rack her brain, for anything that could be used. What could possibly dilute hellfire? “Lead,” she said suddenly. “Lead could work.”

Saniel’s eyes went wide. “Lead?”

“Yes,” Neriah’s mind was racing now. “Look, that metal melts very easily, right? There should be plenty of it here. So if we—”

“—Use the hellfire to pour melted lead. The floor should be safe to cross, oh, you’re a genius.” Saniel beamed at her, and Neriah’s heart did the thing where it performed an entire acrobatic routine in her chest. She could spend an eternity just watching her smile. But right now, she had a job to do. Crossing the bell tower, Neriah sought out where the cauldrons were; she had grown familiar with this place after decades stashing books for Aziraphale. Throwing the cauldron down on its stand, she turned to Saniel.

“So,” she coughed. “Any idea how to get some hellfire here?” 

Saniel pursed her lips. “I can grab the rope, fly down, and use it as tinder.” 

“No, absolutely not.” A bolt of cold fear struck Neriah. Saniel anywhere near hellfire was something she hoped would never have to happen for their entire immortal lives. “I’ll do it; you get the lead. There should be some blocks here.” 

“I’m not letting you risk your life.” Saniel caught her by the arm, and Neriah was  _ so _ not strong enough for this. Unbidden, her conversation with the witch came to mind.  _ Madly in love.  _ Was that true? Was this dizzy, off-balance feeling that seized her by the heart and refused to let go, love? She recalled Jesus, and the sacrificial love he had shown the humans. And she made her choice. 

“Sorry, Sanny.” She grabbed the rope dangling off the balcony, miracling the knot loose, and dove down, summoning her wings as she did so. It took only a few seconds before she reached the fire, flapping frantically to keep her away from the flame. Even the smoke was suffocating, turning the orange sky grey. The rope burned quickly, and she drew it closer to herself before flying up, gasping for air. She felt all heavy, like her feathers were made out of metal. 

Hauling herself back up on the bell tower, she threw the burning rope underneath the cauldron, swaying on her feet. If just being around the fire was bad enough, she shuddered to think what would’ve happened if it had actually touched her. Saniel was there immediately, supporting her weight and rambling about how dangerous that was, trembling with tears as she held Neriah close. 

“ _ God,  _ what were you  _ thinking _ . You could’ve burned, you could’ve been  _ killed _ —oh I’d never forgive myself if you ended up dead and I, I—”

Neriah, having made up her mind about the whole ‘love’ deal, took Saniel’s face in both hands and kissed her. Not for the first time, of course, but there was something different about it. The way Saniel looked at her, with dark eyes that brimmed with tears, made Neriah press their foreheads together and murmur the words. They both knew it, and they had known it for a while, but there was something official in saying it out loud. 

After all, the universe started with the Word of God. 

“I love you,” said Neriah. This was probably a terrible time to say it, and her lungs were still full of hellish smoke, but she couldn’t hold back any longer. “I love you and I’m sorry I took so long to say it.”

“I love you too.” Saniel pushed their lips together once more. “Don’t you dare risk your life like that again.”

Neriah laughed, brushing hair away from her face. “Sorry to break the moment, love, but I’m afraid we have some lead to melt.” The hellfire was burning underneath the cauldron, and Saniel had already thrown some blocks. When they moved over to check it, the lead was already fairly melted. “Do we stir it?” 

“Don’t think so. Is it liquid enough?”

“Wait.” Neriah paused. “We have to wait for Aziraphale to get up here.” Thankfully, it didn’t take long for their friend to emerge, carrying a great serpent. It would’ve been comical if not for his grimace. He nodded at them, in greeting, the snake in his arms flickering. Even in his sleep, the demon was trying to change form. Aziraphale hesitated before setting him down on a table, off the holy ground. Saniel miracled a blanket and passed it to Aziraphale, who took it with a grateful smile.

“I can’t thank you two enough.”

Neriah’s lips curved upwards. “Thank us by getting out alive, okay?” She took Saniel’s hand and let the Light run through her. And then they were gone and the cauldron was tipping over, pouring the molten lead down the stairs of the cathedral, covering the entire main hall on the ground floor. Hellfire metal, allowing demons access while keeping angels away. But unbeknownst to any of them, one angel had made it inside, and he was flying towards the door of the bell tower. 

And he wanted revenge. 

* * *

Aziraphale carried the snake in his arms, too afraid to wind it around anywhere. Its scales were mostly black, with hints of red, and about the length of a regular wingspan. He would’ve wanted to see Crowley in his serpent form in another context, but he supposed it was easier to transport. There was a cacophony of sounds outside as the battle between humans and demons raged. Somebody was trying to break down the door of the cathedral, but Aziraphale ignored them, hurrying up the stairs.

What the witch, Anathema, had said...that the stairs would lead them up into Heaven. He supposed that was true, it made sense. But a small part of him hoped that he would remember now, all his lost memories of what he was like before would come flooding back. But he did not recall ascending these stairs with a sword and his wings, guarding the demons from harm. So what Raphael said was true; Aziraphale’s state was irreversible. There was only one way to go now and that was forward.

Or, more accurately, up. He reached the top of the stairs, at the bell tower, and breathed a sigh. Saniel and Neriah were there, next to a large cauldron. And then they were gone, just as quickly, and the molten lead was covering the stairs and everything below them, forging an infernal pathway. But none of that mattered, not while Crowley was still unconscious, lying on the blanket as he flickered in and out of human form. 

Aziraphale tried to even out his breathing. Right now, all that mattered was keeping Crowley safe until the fighting stopped and the demons could be admitted to Heaven. He cast another pitying look at Crowley, who was currently lying still in human form. There was something so terribly wrong about the way he looked, bruised and battered, with torn, burnt wings. Why on Earth did Gabriel even cut his hair? It seemed unnecessarily cruel, even for him. 

The fear of having almost lost Crowley was back, rattling around Aziraphale’s chest. If he had been just a few seconds too late, swung just a bit off course, Crowley would be  _ gone.  _ Even now, there was no guarantee of survival. Aziraphale leaned forward to press a kiss to Crowley’s forehead, right before he turned back into a snake. Sighing, Aziraphale looked up at the sky, which was turning blue.

“God...if You’re there, please help. Crowley prayed to you and now I’m praying for him. Anything, please.” Aziraphale should’ve known better than to make deals with the Almighty, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered anymore if Crowley didn’t wake up. He went to the balcony, expecting to see a battle. But instead, guards were setting down their weapons in surrender. Not one single body could be seen. They had done it. Everything would be alright.

“Crowley!” he exclaimed with a grin, turning back to see him lying in human form, seemingly solidified now. “Look, the fighting’s over, we won. You can wake up now.” 

And yet Crowley didn’t move. 

Aziraphale stepped closer, reaching out even as his throat constricted. “Crowley, dear? You’re safe now, come and see.” His heart sank when he realized there was not a single hint of movement. It was a strange feeling, not quite the pain he felt witnessing the execution, but instead a strange dizzy sensation, like his center of gravity was all wrong and everything felt so very heavy. His vision began to swim. “Crowley?” Nothing.

Pure, deafening silence. 

Aziraphale wanted to scream. He wanted to cry out, he wanted to sob, he wanted to curse. Because Crowley wasn’t moving, not even a breath of air escaped him, and that could only mean one thing. But all he could do was sink to the ground, following the pull of gravity when his knees gave out. “Oh no. No no  _ no. _ ” Crowley’s skin was still warm, and that only made things worse, like everything in Aziraphale’s chest was being sucked out, replaced by a dull emptiness. 

“No. Crowley, please, this isn’t funny. You can wake up now, come on.”

Nothing. 

Why wasn’t he waking up?

Everything was fine. Why wasn’t Crowley awake?

Now Aziraphale screamed. Or, he figured he had, became his vocal cords felt hoarse, even though the outside world had gone quiet. 

Crowley was gone. 

And now there was nothing.

Nothing except the creak of a door as it locked and the Archangel stepped into the room. “I had to do it, Aziraphale. It was my duty, to cleanse this city, to keep you safe.” The weight of Gabriel’s hand settled on the broken part of Aziraphale’s wings. “I know it hurts. But you don’t have to worry, not anymore. Not when I can end your suffering.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes opened, just enough through the blurry haze of tears to see a sharp shadow behind him. He rolled out of the way right before Gabriel’s flaming sword came down on the spot he was just at. Leaping to his feet, Aziraphale let the fury course through him. Anything to chase away the cold sense of grief, to make him  _ burn  _ with anger. This was true divine wrath, and although Aziraphale didn’t have a halo or a sword or even proper wings, he could still fight. 

Lunging himself at Gabriel, he grappled with him for the sword, trying to wrench it from his hands. Gabriel pushed him away, backing into a corner. “Listen, Aziraphale—”

“No.  _ No. You listen.”  _ Aziraphale advanced towards him. “You’re wicked to the core. All you’re capable of causing is pain and if anything...it’s  _ your  _ wings that deserve to be shattered. You took away my Grace. You made me think I was cursed, an abomination. You kept me in Heaven because you were  _ afraid.  _ Afraid that I would rebel again. Well guess what? I did. And I always will. Because nothing you do to me could ever change the fact that I know something you will  _ never  _ understand, no matter how  _ holy  _ you claim to be.” Aziraphale met Gabriel’s eyes. “Love.”

Many things happened, all at once. Gabriel swung his sword, burning a path through the air. Something shifted next to Aziraphale, a little change of shadow. And Aziraphale was pulled aside, just out of reach, by someone…

“Crowley?” Aziraphale thought he was hallucinating, but Crowley was there,  _ alive.  _ His serpentine eyes were wide, and he was still injured beyond belief but he was alive and that was all that matters. 

“He lives,” snarled Gabriel, approaching them as they scrambled to their feet. “Let’s remedy that, shall we?”

Aziraphale grabbed Crowley’s hand, and then they were running out onto the balcony, away from Gabriel. He just managed to duck behind a corner when Gabriel appeared, swinging his sword. He just barely jumped out of the way to avoid the holy fire. Crowley, hissing from the consecrated ground, jumped up on the railing of the balcony, trying to keep his balance even with damaged wings. Meanwhile, Aziraphale dodged every strike of Gabriel’s blade, which rang against the stone like a bell. 

It wasn’t long before he ran out of places to go, cornered by Gabriel. But Crowley was there, shoving Gabriel aside so that he fell, and pulling Aziraphale over the balcony railing. Together, they held into the gargoyle, waiting for Gabriel to vanish. Instead, what Aziraphale saw would always be burned into his memory.

Gabriel, with his sword held high, eyes aflame with purple, looked more demonic than even the Devil could ever hope to be. As he prepared to swing, he spoke, almost like a murmur:  _ “and He shall smite the wicked and plunge them into the fiery pit.”  _

Aziraphale wrapped an arm around Crowley’s waist and swung them back up on the edge of the balcony. If they fell now, there would be no way to fly. Gabriel’s face contorted in a growl as he threw himself forward, knocking Aziraphale out of the way so that he had to cling to a gargoyle to keep from falling over. “ _ Demon, _ ” he spat, and the point of his sword was ready to sink into Crowley’s chest when Aziraphale pulled him out of the way, just barely. 

The movement was enough to knock Gabriel down, on the outside of the cathedral. But Gabriel didn’t go so easily; he pulled Aziraphale along with him. The sword went falling into the fire raging below them. Crowley cried out in alarm. 

Aziraphale clung onto the gargoyle, barely keeping his balance on the railing. A thought trickled into his mind, growing clearer with every second. Gabriel would never stop hunting Crowley, keeping the other demons from Ascending. As long as he was still alive, they would all be in danger. Below them, hellfire licked at the sky, the same blinding shade as Crowley’s hair. He stared into it and made a decision.

He couldn’t let Crowley die. Aziraphale knew that, no matter what, this wouldn’t be in vain. It would be worth it.

Gabriel, hanging onto the other gargoyle, followed his gaze and laughed, something maniacal about it. “You’ll burn alive with those useless wings.”

Aziraphale didn’t look back, didn’t let himself see Crowley, didn’t want to remind himself of everything he would lose. Instead, he gritted his teeth and lunged forward in a terrible mimicry of a hug. He grabbed onto Gabriel’s wings and used the momentum to throw them both off the cathedral.

Towards the hellfire.

And then everything was burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :)  
> This chapter was...difficult to write. I wrestled with many ideas of how I wanted it to go, but settled on this one. Because, no matter which variations of it exists, Notre Dame is, at its core, a tragedy.  
> Two chapters left :)))


	15. Sacrificium

Falling really was like flying, Aziraphale realized, as he plummeted towards the ground. Time seemed to stretch and slow, twisting itself around in loops until Aziraphale could see _everything._ From the almost iridescent tongues of flame seeking to devour him, to the people who watched him plummet, to the clouds obscuring Heaven. The only thing he couldn’t bring himself to look at was Crowley, who had almost fallen off the balcony himself in an attempt to grab onto Aziraphale. Now, his wings beat the air frantically as he screamed.

But Aziraphale didn’t see that. Instead, his lungs stung with the smoke rushing towards him and the weight of the hellfire pulled him and Gabriel down, burning away their Grace. Gabriel’s wings flapped uselessly as he struggled, but Aziraphale kept him from flying. This had to matter. Although he knew he should’ve burned by now, time was a fickle thing, and he was suspended in it, like a specimen in a jar of jelly. 

A dull pain throbbed between his wings, a sort of itch he needed to scratch. His jaw ached as well, and he felt as if though he would suffocate to death before anything else. But the strange feeling persisted. The fire was close now so close that he could feel the heat of it tear through him, making his blood tremble and fracture. Right before he made contact, a single thought came to his mind. The very reason he had dragged Gabriel off the cathedral in the first place.

Crowley.

And after that, a realization. 

Aziraphale didn’t want to die. 

He didn’t even understand what he had done, at first. But the tension in his wings grew and grew and all he could do was _push,_ fight back against the tightly-wound ache of his feathers _._ And then he felt it. A horrible creaking of bone, sending agony racing through him strong enough to make him scream. It felt as if though he was splitting apart, rearranging everything in his body to do this one thing and—

Right before the fire consumed him, Aziraphale’s wings unfurled for the first time in hundreds of years. Gabriel slipped from his grasp, and the hellfire arched up to take him. There wasn’t much fanfare, no dramatic last words or a look of terror. Just the flame swallowing him up, reducing his existence to nothing but cinders and ash that would blow away in the wind, mixed with the obliterated stage. 

Aziraphale wasn’t flying, that was too generous of a word. But his wings were supporting his weight, letting him glide to the ground, barely avoiding the fire himself. He hit the ground with a _thud_ and collapsed, gasping for air as his wings curled back in on themselves, whatever physical feats they had accomplished now gone. All the strength seeped out of him as he went boneless, coughing the smoke from his lungs. His head spun, the imagine of Gabriel falling into the hellfire replaying in his mind.

And _how_ had he flown?

Aziraphale could still feel his wings twitching as someone rushed forward to help him up. It was Anathema, eyes gone wide. “How did you…?”

“My feathers,” Aziraphale rasped, trying to turn and see them. “Color?”

She frowned, looking at him. “Kind of spotted, why?”

So he wasn’t healed. But that still didn’t explain how he managed to do it. He stumbled away from her, making his way towards the front of the cathedral. But before he could even reach the steps, the doors burst open. Crowley came running out, something frantic in his expression. Aziraphale almost fell over again from the forcefulness of the embrace. Everything smelled like ash, but Aziraphale supposed that was just him. 

Crowley hugged him tight enough that Aziraphale thought he would start coughing again. “You _bastard,_ ” he hissed, chest shaking with what could’ve been sobs. “Don’t you _ever_ do that again, for _Ssssomeone’s_ sake, I was terrified.” He pulled away to look Aziraphale in the eyes. “Thought I wasss gonna losssse you.” And then, quieter, with a furrow of his eyebrows and a voice quiet enough to be a whisper. “You flew.”

Aziraphale nodded. “Yes.”

“How?”

“I don’t know.” He clutched Crowley closer and if he could have it his way, he could never have to let go. But then he felt Crowley wince and jumped away. 

Crowley chuckled, running a hand through his hair and looking surprised when he found it short. “Yeah, I’m not exactly in the best shape, so you’ll have to forgive me, angel.” 

Aziraphale was laughing too, although he supposed that was just the hysteria. His nose brushed against Crowley’s, and all he wanted to do was lay down and not get back up for a few years. But he still had a job to do, and was reminded of that fact after a sharp cough. He turned to see Beelzebub, rolling their eyes.

“Letzzz get on with it,” they buzzed. A wave of their hands later, and the hellfire went out. Aziraphale half-expected for the Archangel to rise from the smoldering pile of ashes, but no such thing happened. He let out a breath of air. 

Crowley managed to pull himself away with enough decency to look sheepish. “Right.” He turned to Aziraphale, gesturing towards the cathedral. “Lead the way?” 

This was it. What he had worked so hard for, sacrificing everything from his Grace to his life. It was time for the demons to be forgiven. The humans stayed perfectly still, watching them as Aziraphale turned and beckoned the demons along. They filed into the cathedral, stepping easily on the thin coating of lead. Every step echoed, and nobody dared to speak, too afraid of disrupting the fragile peace. 

Aziraphale moved towards the stairs, but was startled away by a flash of Light so bright it almost blinded him. Blinking furiously, he reached out towards Crowley, intertwining their fingers. The face of a man appeared, hovering above them. He already knew who it was, but the introduction came anyway.

“I am the Metatron,” he boomed. “The Voice of God.”

“Oh, _this guy_ again.” Crowley scoffed under his breath, and Aziraphale didn’t need to look to see the expression of disdain on his face. “Couldn’t have shown up earlier, I take it?”

Aziraphale shushed him. “Dear, it would really be prudent for you to be quiet.”

“The Principality is correct. Politeness would suit you, especially considering the deal the Almighty is prepared to offer.” The Metatron cleared his throat, which was completely unnecessary considering he didn’t have a throat to clear. The demons watched him with rapt attention, too afraid to move. “Upon the obliteration of an Archangel from the universe, there becomes a large gap in Holiness. Therefore, the Almighty has deigned to allow the admission of demons into Heaven, rendering them as they were before the Fall.”

“Is that all?” Aziraphale asked, with a tilt of his head.

“Furthermore, the Almighty had decreed that the influence of angels on Earth, save for invisible Guardians and the like, is now outlawed. We are not rulers, nor do we have the authority Archangel Gabriel imposed on this city. After the Ascension, every angel with permanently withdraw to Heaven, and the Gates shall be closed until the dread Second Coming. The Almighty assumes that none of you are opposed to this term.”

Aziraphale felt dizzy. This was almost too good to be true. He looked at Crowley, only to see something strange. Crowley was frowning, face scrunched up as if he couldn’t quite understand the words. “No,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Bullshit,” he said, a little bit louder. “There’s a catch.” He stared into the Metatron’s eyes, definitely, ignoring Aziraphale’s silent protest. 

The Metatron sighed. “Yes, very well. There must always be a balance, and the obliteration of an Archangel, no matter how,” his lips curled. “ _Wayward,_ still has its consequences.” Then, he looked directly at Aziraphale.

Of course. He had thrown Gabriel over the cathedral with intention to burn himself alive as well. But because he survived, a payment had to be extracted. Aziraphale had to break his promise to Crowley and sacrifice one more thing, for his sake. Taking his hand from Crowley’s grasp, he stepped forward. 

“Angel,” Crowley hissed. “What are you—”

Aziraphale turned back to him, savoring the image for a moment. “I’m sorry, dear, but this is the only way. I know how desperately you want to Ascend, and I hope you can forgive me.”

Crowley looked aghast, like he had just eaten something rotten. “No, _no._ Screw that, tell me what you’re—”

Aziraphale addressed the Metatron. He knew how Heaven worked and he knew what was expected of him. “I understand this, and although I have no Grace to speak of, I hope that Archangel Gabriel’s can be put to good use. To atone for my actions against Heaven, I renounce my place amongst the Host. I will stay here, on Earth, awaiting the time when the Gates open once more.”

It was the right thing to do, even if it meant never seeing Saniel or Neriah or Crowley ever again. Aziraphale had done wrong, even if Gabriel deserved it. And he was never truly an angel to begin with, so why bother with all the trappings. He had made the decision as soon as he stepped out of the Gates with Raphael. Heaven had nothing for him anymore. But for Crowley, for the other demons, it was their Salvation. And he wasn’t going to keep it from them.

It was different than losing Crowley to holy water or Gabriel’s sword. Because now, Crowley would be safe and happy, in Heaven. 

The Metatron nodded, pleased. “Then it is settled. The Almighty welcomes the Fallen with open arms. Come forward and receive Forgiveness.” A portal of Light began to form. Aziraphale tried to block out the sound of Crowley’s arguing. This was all for the best.

Beelzebub was the first to step forward, walking with even steps up to the Light. Suddenly, their wings were glowing, so brightly it was almost impossible. And then, every boil and fly and black feather was stripped away. And they were holy again, vanishing into the portal. Then came Trinal, who all but bounded towards it, Ascending with a burst of Light. Arnoch, Zolgoth, and the rest all shuffled forward, gasping with wonder as their brethren were welcomed back into the Love they had been cut off from. 

It was truly a beautiful thing, Aziraphale thought, with a smile. _Forgiveness._ It shone in radiant beams and reflected off the dull metal and stained glass and gold murals. It was laughter and Grace and such exquisite happiness that it was impossible not to feel. He suddenly understood why humans were so faithful after all these years, to someone that never voiced a presence. It was because of _this._ And Aziraphale knew that if he was human and if he knew there was even a fraction of a chance to attain this wonder, he would do everything to get it.

He was crying, he realized with a start, when Crowley stepped up to the Light. Crowley turned around, brushing his thumb over Aziraphale’s cheek and wiping away a tear. “Don’t worry, angel,” he said, so quietly that it didn’t even echo. “We’ll meet again.” 

Aziraphale swallowed over the lump in his throat. And then, before he had a chance to back away, he kissed Crowley, tasting salt and smoke and pure adoration in the softness of his lips. “I love you,” he whispered, for the last time. 

Crowley turned to the Light, reaching his hand out to brush it. Immediately, he sighed in relief, feeling Grace flood into him. This was it. Some of his feathers began to turn white, and just as he was about to step inside, he pulled away sharply, as if breaking out of a trance. “No,” he said, with perfect certainty.

The Metatron raised an eyebrow. “No?”

Crowley shook his head, resolute. “No. The Almighty is all about free will, right?” He looked up, past the ceiling, past the sky, Up. “Thank you, for everything. But I think I’d rather stay here.”

“You...you’d give up Salvation?” The Metatron had no protocol for this.

“Crowley, _no,_ ” Aziraphale couldn’t believe it. “This is everything you’ve ever wanted.”

Crowley shook his head, stepping away from the portal once and for all. His wings reverted back to blackness. “ _You’re_ everything I’ve ever wanted. I never needed to Ascend, not like the others did. I wanted Heaven because _you_ were there. And I want to stay on Earth with you as well. And I’ll stay with you for all of Eternity, and then past that, as well.” He smiled at Aziraphale, and there were entire solar systems in that smile, lighting up the whole world like he was its own personal sun. “I love you angel, and there’s no way you can get rid of me that easily.”

When he turned around, the Metatron was gone, and so was the Light. The unfortunate result was that the lead coating had also vanished, leaving Crowley hopping on consecrated ground. “Ah! Shit!” 

Aziraphale scooped him up, one hand on the small of his back, the other supporting the crook of his knees. Crowley beamed at him, wings folding back over Aziraphale’s arms as his fingers intertwined at the back of Aziraphale’s neck. He still winced a little bit, but his eyes shone like there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

“We could get married here,” he said, a bit too eager to truly be casual. “S’called a bridal carry for a reason.”

“Oh, but wouldn’t you rather do it officially?” Aziraphale leaned in for a kiss. He would kiss Crowley as much as possible now that he could, he vowed to himself. “After all, you were always a sucker for the dramatic.”

Crowley shrugged. “Doesn’t matter, s’long as it happens.”

Aziraphale snapped his fingers and spoke against Crowley’s lips. “There. Married.”

“Wait,” Crowley scrambled away as much as he could while still being carried by Aziraphale. “Wait, _really?_ ”

“No,” Aziraphale laughed. “But we will. Another day.” He would have to get wine and dinner and rings. If there were going to bother with a human custom, they had to do it right. 

“Another day,” Crowley grumbled mockingly. Aziraphale hushed him with a kiss. “So,” Crowley said when he could finally speak again. Aziraphale noted, with great satisfaction, that his cheeks had gone red. “We’re...what, ambassadors now?”

“Ambassadors.” Aziraphale turned the word over on his tongue. “I like the sound of that.”

Aziraphale carried Crowley outside of the cathedral, where the humans awaited. There would be rebuilding to do, of course, even with all the physical traces gone. Without a clear-cut sense of morality, there would be chaos. Not to mention rebuilding the guard, now without the corruption of celestial authorities. The city had been run by angels for so long, but now they had to learn to live outside of that. 

And then there was Crowley himself who—despite having the same snarky persona—was still injured, his feathers burnt and skin bruised. Aziraphale almost wished he could bring back Gabriel only to throw him into the fire again. He hoped Crowley’s overnight stay in the cathedral had held no other unpleasant surprises, especially considering Gabriel’s obsession. Crowley jumped down, raising his arms in a cheer, one that was not easily echoed by the humans, save for the witch and her male companion, who were currently holding hands.

Aziraphale couldn’t even bring himself to think of his own wings and the sheer impossibility of being able to do what he had done. “Crowley, dear?” He had to ask.

“What is it?”

Aziraphale took a deep breath. “What I did, when I was falling. That shouldn’t have been possible. And yet I unfurled my wings. They’re not healed, nor can they be. But how…”

Crowley shrugged. “It shouldn’t have been possible for demons to get forgiveness, or for Archangels to be evil. But here we are.” He reached out to brush his fingers along Aziraphale’s primaries. Nothing but the same numb feeling, as if Crowley was touching his elbow. “What I think is that you’re not repaired, not in the spiritual sense. But in the physical,” he absentmindedly circled the knots of Azirapale’s bones. “Something can be done.”

“Like what?”

“Well, there has to be research done, right? On rehabilitating broken limbs or stretching muscles? I know it’s not the same, but,” Crowley’s hand came to cradle Aziraphale’s jaw. “If you want to try, then I’ll help you through it, full stop.”

Aziraphale nodded. If there was even a chance he could fly again, he would take it. “Maybe we’ll even get to fly together.” It was a breath of a whisper, but it was enough to make Crowley smile. There was something fragile about it, even then, despite his tenderness. A strange sort of emotion bloomed in Aziraphale’s chest. Love, of course, but something else as well.

When their lips met in front of the doors of the cathedral, Aziraphale realized what it was. It was what kept him going in Heaven, what propelled him to meet Crowley, what kept him defiant enough to rescue Crowley. It was what Crowley used, to stay strong even in the face of certain death. And it would be what the humans would need, in the coming months. Aziraphale let it flood through him as clear as crystal, as bright as the sun, as free and fresh as the air he breathed.

_Hope._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say, I'm a sucker for a happy ending.  
> Oh my God, I can't believe I've come so far with this fic. It started off as this plot bunny I came up with on a road trip, and ended up snowballing into my first multichapter ever. Holy shit...I'm so grateful for the support I've had, and every single kudos/comment has brightened my day and kept me writing.  
> I can't wait for next week, to share the conclusion of Spira Spera.  
> Next chapter is the epilogue!


	16. Spes

**_(One Month Later)_ **

Two angels watched the city rebuild. There was nothing particularly angelic about them, as many had previously noted, although one’s pale hair hung around her head like a halo and the other’s smile was bright enough to create galaxies with the light it emitted. They did not have physical bodies, for to appear on Earth in the material sense would be breaking the Agreement that bound all angels until the Second Coming. The only contact with the mortal realm was of the metaphysical kind. Just to be safe, all angels who didn’t have immediate business on Earth had been recalled completely, for the next hundred years or so. An additional precaution, said the three remaining Archangels, to allow cleansing.

Thankfully, these particular ones were Guardians, and not particularly good at following rules in the first place. Saniel and Neriah walked the sky above the no-longer holy city. It was a strange thing, to watch minds reconstruct their idea of reality. Only a few weeks ago, they had been ruled by winged beings. A few decades from now, barely any people would remember. Empires would fall, religions would build, and celestial beings would only become stories to the skeptics, invisible presences to the faithful. 

They watched a woman with a painted face and an equally bright shawl make her way through the city. She was headed for the Palace of Justice, to do a very angelic thing and forgive. The Judge sat alone at his table, going through paperwork. Saniel wondered how things would turn out with them. Neither were particularly religious to begin with, but the sudden freedom of the Guard from Gabriel meant that a new code of morality had to be formed, new laws that didn’t hinge on the Archangel’s approval.

Somewhere else, a man and a witch took a walk through the woods. Saniel could sense the knife’s edge they were balancing on, with their individual fates pulling them apart even as prophecies tried to bring them together. It was odd, how duty and responsibility could be so intrinsic, keeping the fabric of life together like pieces of a quilt. And when one thread started to unravel, then everything could fall apart. But they persisted, falling in love against all odds. Which brought the two walking angels to the town square, where the festival had been held. 

“Look.” Neriah pointed to the fountain. “That was where you kissed me, for the second time, I mean. During the festival, while we were dancing.”

Saniel remembered. Moving mostly on impulse, all she knew was that it felt so undeniably right the first time she had done it that it would be a shame not to take advantage of the celebrations. “So many things happened there, now that I think of it.” She had pieced together the story as well as she could. The catalyst for everything was the Jeweled Parade, bringing all of them together and pulling them in, intertwining their stories like the patterns of a hanging vine. 

“Do you think Aziraphale is happy?” Neriah blurted it out quickly, like she was nervous about the words. “I mean, I know he made his bargain with the Metatron, but still. On Earth, with a demon…”

Saniel laughed. Neriah always had been more set in her ways. “We can see for ourselves, if you’d like, what our dear friend is doing.” She led Neriah through the clouds, their feet never even touching the rooftops. “There.” 

On the street below them, an angel and a demon walked hand in hand. Aziraphale wore no cloak, his wings there for all to see. The demon, Crowley, had his own out in solidarity. Bits of conversation could be easily made out.

“There’s this place I’ve been reading about dear, and they do simply remarkable things to oysters. Imported from the coast, obviously.”

Crowley looked thoughtful. “I’ve never eaten an oyster.” 

“Well, then let me tempt you—” Aziraphale cut himself off. “Oh. No, that’s your job isn’t it?”

Crowley burst into laughter, leaning in to peck Aziraphale’s cheek. “Maybe I’m rubbing off on you.”

“I wouldn’t count on it.” Aziraphale put on his prim and proper angel face, although now it was with a twinge of exaggerated mockery. 

“Bold words from somebody who almost tripped on a duck the other day. I’m never letting you live that down. It was  _ right there,  _ angel.” Crowley laughed, face scrunching up as he wiped tears from his eyes theatrically. “Where’d all the grace go, huh?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to protest, then just  _ harrumphed,  _ leading Crowley off to another avenue, seemingly on a goal to find said oyster place. Their banter faded off into the distance. 

Saniel turned to Neriah. “See? He made the right choice. He never could’ve had a truly satisfying life in Heaven, with or without Gabriel. But here, he can have his books and food and human indulgences. Even if it is with a demon.” 

Neriah smiled. “I wish I could be as trusting as you sometimes.”

“You’re perfect just as you are. Come on,” she beckoned. “Still many things to see.” They made their way back, relishing in the cool breeze and slightly clouded sunlight. It wasn’t a perfect day, but it was a good one. Strolling through the air next to the cathedral, Saniel gestured to where people below were getting ready for the Liturgy. “They still show up,” she said, with no small amount of curiosity.

“Well,” Neriah followed her gaze to where women were throwing on scarves to cover their hair before they entered, crossing themselves at the doors. “I can’t blame them. Everyone needs something to believe in.”

“But how long until they stop?” Saniel listened to the bells ring, signaling the start of the morning service. Two hours from now, the people inside the cathedral would take Communion, accepting Jesus’ body and blood, vowing to sin no longer. They would exit the church and they would keep that promise for a few minutes, a few hours, maybe even a day. Then the next week, they would come back, with their pride and lust and gluttony weighing on them. It was what made humans so charming, and so frustrating. 

Neriah chewed her bottom lip. “I don’t think they ever will. Even millennia later, there will always be those who believe. Even if we can no longer show ourselves, that doesn’t mean we leave forever. Our jobs will continue, and so will our connection to humanity.” She sighed, almost resigned, yet a small smile remained on her face. 

They both stood in silence, letting that sink in. 

“I Love them,” said Saniel, quietly. “Divine Love, but I think I only just realized what that means. They make all these mistakes, they stumble, they fall. But then they get back up. And when they’re good, very rarely, then they’re even better than us. Because we never get that choice. We  _ have  _ to Love and we have to be Good. But they don’t, which is what makes the entire thing so curious. Because even if they don’t have to do anything, even if there are no angels to enforce things anymore, they still choose to go to these services and sing their hymns and believe that we exist.” 

When Saniel turned to look at Neriah, she was struck by her beauty. No icon, no matter how skilfully painted, could capture how she looked, the sun rising behind her like a disc of light. Neriah glanced up and met Saniel’s eyes. 

“Maybe you’re right,” she said. “I think I understand Divine Love too.” She reached out, almost uncertainly, for Saniel’s hand. Their fingers interlocked, and even though they had no bodies to speak of, it still felt soft and warm and perfect. “And it’s not what I feel for you.”

“Oh?” Saniel’s heart skipped a beat. “Then what do you feel for me?”

“Love,” murmured Neriah. “Of the human kind.”

And then she kissed her, swooping down to fit their lips together. Saniel squeezed their joined hands together just as the Liturgy started.  _ This was love. _

* * *

A painted lady made her way through the city, keeping her head down as she traced familiar streets, mind mapping out the route to the Palace of Justice. She had thought a long time about this, wondering if this was the best choice or if it would be more prudent for her to leave it be. Even going so far as to ask Anathema, only to receive a response that could be paraphrased to:  _ figure it out yourself, I’m hexing the fool anyway. _

Anathema was a bright girl, thought Madame Tracy, but she still had so much to do. Now that the prophecies were done with, her entire future was open. A couple of weeks ago, Anathema had taken up temporary residence in her cottage. Of course, the guards would be back, but with all the chaos, she still had some time to figure out what to do. And what her dashing male companion wanted to do as well.

In any case, Anathema had invited Madame Tracy over a few days ago for some tea and a request.  _ Can you help me... _ she had gestured to the book of prophecy lying on the table.  _ I don’t want it anymore.  _ Although she had wanted to burn it, she said she didn’t want to attract unneeded attention, from either the guards or the wildlife. So she gave the book to Madame Tracy, who promptly sought out to bury it until she realized Anathema would still be tempted to recover it from the earth. 

Which sent her thinking: if only I knew someone with a nice furnace. And she did. The only problem was that she had not spoken to Judge Shadwell for quite some time, not since the whole debacle that was dinner. His cruel words still echoed in her mind, although she had managed to let them go. But in any case, he was still Judge, and his alchemy experiments would have to require a furnace strong enough to burn an ancient book.

Furthermore, Madame Tracy found herself under the very human weakness of wanting to speak to him. She had prepared a whole speech, but as soon as she knocked on the door to the Palace of Justice, everything vanished from her mind. It took a while for the door to slide open, but when it did, she was looking right into Shadwell’s wide eyes.

“Tracy…?” he sounded hoarse. So he really hadn’t expected to see her. 

She found herself at a loss for words. “Can I come in?” 

In his shock, all he could do was step aside. Shadwell ran a hand through his hair as the door closed with a strangely final sound. She looked around the justice building. Much the same, with the main table covered in paperwork. “What’s that?” She gestured towards the files.

“Er, that’s,” he coughed. “The new penal code. Figured I’d rewrite it.” He shrugged. “At a loss for most of it, but without Gabriel there, thought I should actually do my job.” 

Madame Tracy nodded. This was turning out to be more awkward than she had initially anticipated. “Can I—oh this’ll sound all sorts of odd—can I use your furnace?” She held up the book of prophecy uncertainly. 

Shadwell’s expression visibly fell. “Yes, yes, of course. I have one,” he waved his hands through the air. “Upstairs. Well, for my, my alchemy.”

She followed him up to the second floor, clutching the book close as she ascended. With a small smile at Shadwell, she watched him go to open the door of the small furnace. Tossing the book in, she jumped away from the flare of the coals. He closed the furnace and they watched smoke pour from the slits in the metal, pouring up and out of the chimney. Although Madame Tracy would never admit it, she had always found alchemy fascinating. Not for the purposes of greed, no, she already had enough money. But the idea of taking one thing and turning it so permanently into something so different always fascinated her. 

“Tracy, I’m sorry.” 

She almost fell down, she jolted so quick. That was unexpected. More than unexpected,  _ impossible.  _ During the course of their entire friendship, Shadwell hadn’t apologized, not even once. And now, he sounded truly remorseful, each syllable drawn out, as if it was painful to say. 

“What I said to you, it was unforgivable. But you see, Gabriel already despised my friendship with you, and if it developed into something more, I couldn’t risk causing your arrest. I know that doesn’t excuse what I said but…” he wrung his hands together, his accent making his words blur together. “Ah, bugger it all. I’m sorry and I hope that somehow, I know it sounds ludicrous, but somehow—”

“Okay.” 

“Huh?” 

“Okay.” Madame Tracy’s voice was even as she finally remembered what she was here to say. “I forgive you.”  
Shadwell furrowed his eyebrows. “That’s all?”

A laugh burst from her lips. “What, you want a speech? Fine, here.” She took a deep breath, remembering what Anathema had told her. What she had told herself. “I have cared about you, for a long time, if I’m being honest. And the moment you show any chance of reciprocating, you shut me down in the cruelest way possible. Why didn’t you trust me with the truth? Why did you have to attack every weak spot you knew? It was unspeakably cruel.” She sighed. “And yet, I still forgive you. You’re a good man, Shadwell, even if you don’t show it.”

He moved to take her hands in his own. Hope started to show in her eyes. “So you’ll have me?”

She stepped away. “And why would you get that impression?” She shook her head with a fond smile. “No. I’ll be glad to resume a friendship, but as a romantic partner, I don’t think you would be good for me.”

“I—”

“That doesn’t mean I’m still angry at you. It just means that I don’t want you that way.” She had spent a while trying to think it over. But it was rather simple in the end. Madame Tracy wanted someone who would love her because of her oddities, not despite them. And no matter what she said about moving on, Shadwell’s words would always echo around her thoughts. 

He nodded, resigned. “Then I’d be honored to have you as a friend.” Then, he opened the doors of the furnace, revealing that the prophecy book had been reduced to ashes. 

Madame Tracy sighed in relief. Finally, Anathema could take control of her own future. “Thank you.” 

She made to leave, but stopped. “Say, Shadwell, I don’t suppose I could see your alchemy experiments? Well, now that the furnace is running and all.”

An uncertain grin pulled at his lips. “Really? I, well I never thought you’d be interested in something like that. But I’d be more than glad to show you.” He trailed off, something like a stammer leaving him. “Unfortunately, I still have paperwork to do. Laws and all.” He looked at her again, thoughtfully. “Maybe  _ you  _ could help.”

“Me?” 

“Yes, well, offer your input. The last laws, well, you know they weren’t exactly kind to people like you, fortune tellers, gypsies, the like. Maybe I can do better.”

She looked at him with disbelief. Then, softening, she smiled. “I’d love that.”  _ This was peace. _

* * *

Technically, there was nothing keeping Anathema and Newt apart anymore. The Guard was being temporarily rearranged, as per the orders of the Judge. The angels had completely withdrawn. Her cottage was fine enough after a little bit of tidying up. And yet, a heavy, oppressive silence settled over them. Newt still came to visit her cottage every day, and she let him in. But neither of them spoke about his confession of love, what it meant, or what would come next.

Until today, a month after the whole thing began. A nice morning, slowly merging towards noon. The woods were peaceful, all the windows were opened, letting in a breeze. The cottage itself was strangely neat, free of the usual herbal dust and clutter. Birds could be heard chirping, squirrels scrabbling from tree to tree as the summer continued to its end. It was just as beautiful as always, but the same tightness was wound tight in the air, words yet to be spoken. They were drinking tea together at her table, when she said it. 

She drained her cup, setting it aside. Resisting the urge to examine the tea leaves at the bottom, she instead turned to Newt, sitting next to her. Casually, she spoke. “Why don’t you kiss me anymore?”

He startled, almost dropping his cup. Staring down at his feet, he admitted with a voice so quiet she had to lean in to hear it. “Didn’t think you wanted me to.”

Anathema laughed, at that, and as soon as he looked up, she moved to press her lips to his. He tasted like mint and lemon verbena, but she supposed she did as well. “There.” Smiling, she rose from the table, reaching her hand out to him. “Go for a walk with me?”

He took it, raising an eyebrow. “Any particular reason?”

“Just a good day.” 

They walked out of the cottage, the door closing behind them. A few days ago, there had been a storm, and a ring of mushrooms cropped up around the meadow. Anathema had joked that she got trapped within a faerie ring. Newt told her to watch out for men with frog eyes and women with hollow back.  _ But I’ve got a Newt right here with me,  _ she laughed. He had never loved her more than in that moment, and he had to bite his tongue to keep from saying the words aloud. 

Now, the mushrooms were mostly gone, he noted as he stepped into the forest with her. The canopy filtered some of the light, leaving them suspended in a world of green and gold. He had finally gotten his spectacles gone, which meant he could see it even better. Bugs scuttled in the earth and crawled between the ridges of the tree bark. Birds dismantled their nests, preparing to fly north. Bushes full of berries were in full bloom, as alluring as they were poisonous. 

They walked through the woods, tracing out paths already forged with steps made long ago. Distantly, the sound of a burbling creek could be heard, and Newt realized they were walking towards it. He had gone there once, and almost got bit by a snake. Anathema chuckled when he relayed the experience to her, telling him that he needed to be careful. Ever since then, he had stayed mostly away, not even the promise of fish could bring him back. It made sense, he supposed, that he could go back if only for Anathema. 

Just as he suspected, they stopped in front of the creek, the water rushing past the rocks. Occasionally, a dragonfly would flit between the reeds, a shadow of a fish passing through the water. Without the snakes, it was actually quite nice.   
“So,” said Newt. “You did bring me here for a reason.”

Anathema sighed. “I did.” She stood up on her toes in order to kiss him again, and it felt strangely final. “Listen, Newt…”

“Oh God, this is when you tell me you don’t love me back?” As soon as he spoke, he regretted it. Anathema flinched back as if he had just started yelling, blinking rapidly to reorient. “Shit, sorry. Just panicked. Go on.” His cheeks were definitely burning.

She stayed very quiet, teeth worrying at her lower lip. Newt could feel himself getting dizzy. He had expected it from the beginning, but now it was about to be said aloud. But instead of rebuffing him, Anathema looked up to meet his eyes. Her fingers brushed along his jaw, a soothing touch. 

“I do love you Newt, and I’m sorry I couldn’t say it before.”

“But…”

She shushed him. “Let me speak. I love you, and I was scared. Scared that fate would drive us apart somehow or that you would get fed up and leave. But now I think I can say it. I love you and I want to be with you. For real.” Inhaling sharply, her gaze flickered away. “But I just burned my book, the prophecy one. And that means my future is open. And I don’t know…”

“You don’t know what you’ll choose without the prophecies telling you what to do.”

She nodded. “It’s difficult to explain. I love you but I know if I stay here, then I’ll always be thinking of what I didn’t do, while I still had the chance. I’ll always resent the fact that I went from one permanent destiny to the next. And not that it would be a bad thing, with you,” she said hurriedly. “I just don’t know if I can be happy staying here right now.”

“Then I’ll go with you,” Newt took her hand and held it up to his lips. “I told you, I’ll follow you to wherever you want to go, if you want me to.”

Anathema’s eyebrows furrowed, and she squeezed her eyes shut. There was no way she would start crying now. “Here’s the thing. You still belong here. When the Guard comes back together, everything’s going to be different. New laws, new lives. And you have to be a part of that. Don’t tell me you can leave it all behind because we both know that’s not true. You may have resigned, but it was never going to be forever. You served in the  _ war, _ Newt, and you wouldn’t be satisfied staying on the sidelines. Protecting the city, serving the law, that’s where you belong. Making things better for everyone.”

“And you could never be satisfied staying here, not when you’re finally free to leave,” he whispered, dropping her hand. “So this is it, then?” 

She pursed her lips. “Not quite.” Reaching into the satchel hanging at her side, she pulled out a rope pendant. Soft brown twine, with dots of amber sap circling it, almost like beads. And hanging at the bottom were two rings. Simple gold, with a green gem embedded in each. 

Newt’s breath caught. “Are those—”

She slipped the pendant around his neck. “Rings. Wedding rings, if you want to be precise.” Anathema smiled with a sort of hopeful fragility. “Give one back to me when I come back, if you still want me then.”

“I’m not giving up on you that easily.” He kissed her, the weight of the rings hanging between them. “I’ll wait as long as I need for you to come back.”

She laughed, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “Not long, I promise. A few months...a year at most. I’ll be back by next summer.” Hopefully then they could figure out what to do about the discovered cottage. “In the meantime, you’re allowed to mind the home, if you’d like.”

Newt beamed. “I’d love to. When are you leaving?”

She averted her gaze, looking instead to the water. “In five days.”

“Then I’ll walk you to the boat when you do. And I’ll meet you back at the docks when you come back. Just promise to write, okay? Do some witchy stuff overseas.”

Her smile was more radiant than the forest and the sun and the water combined, and then they were kissing again, with a tearful sort of desperation. A promise, worth more than words and rings. They clung to each other, trying to pour their emotions out through the meeting of lips. In just five days, Anathema would go, and Newt would stay to help rebuild. And when she came back, he would break the rope of the pendant. 

But right now, he just held her close, relishing in every moment they could spend together. He trusted her to come back. She would, he just knew it. Because no matter how far away they were, their hearts would beat true.  _ This was faith. _

* * *

The Liturgy ended, people filing out. Kids ran out into the square, while couples stopped to chat with other parents. It was almost noon now, and the bells of the cathedral rang to signify the dismissal of the service. And, if one were to look past the groups of people congregating in the place that—a month ago, was a pyre of hellfire—one would see two men walking away from the cathedral. One in all black with a shock of fiery hair, the other in a white tunic and with wings. They walked with their hands together, in quiet conversation.

Crowley held a bottle of wine, one that had quite miraculously appeared in his hands when Aziraphale remarked about wanting a drink. Now that they could finally be on Earth without interruptions, there was nothing stopping Aziraphale from indulging. At first, he was too hesitant, still frightened of their brush with death. But then they slowly started to leave their room at the inn, starting to walk the streets. Once a day, they would find something to do, whether it be sailing or eating or simply sitting in an orchard and taking in each other’s company. Slowly, the tension of the angels’ rule began to flicker out.

Crowley had also stopped dancing, but only temporarily, while his cuts and bruises healed. It was impossible to miracle them away, due to their holy nature, so he had to get better the human way. Aziraphale spread various ointments and wrapped bandages around Crowley’s limbs, preening his wings daily as the black feathers filled back in. He brushed his hair and joked about cutting it all the way, in the short fashion that suited most men. The days passed in relative quiet, especially after the chaos before. Even then, it was impossible to relieve the hollow look in Crowley’s eyes that tended to appear when night fell. 

He wished he could move on that easily, but memories of the cathedral, of Gabriel, of divine wrath burning through him, still hung around. And then, the worst part of it all, watching Aziraphale plummet into the hellfire with no way to stop it. The feeling of pure helplessness, every part of his soul alight with horror as he relieved having almost lost Aziraphale. Obviously, they were both safe now, and Crowley forged ahead, stubborn in his refusal to let even a moment go to waste. He was healing, the city was healing. 

Aziraphale had been stretching his wings, too, slowly extending and them folding then back, gritting his jaw as he practiced over and over, emboldened by the idea of ever getting to use them. The bones were still misplaced, and the muscles stunted, but even the simple act of moving them was enough. He would beam at Crowley every time he managed to get them straightened all the way out. Although he hadn’t managed to fly just yet, not including the hellfire fueled glide, he was learning to move again.

Which is what brought them to their current destination, wine in hand, a resolved certainty to their steps. 

It was on a bluff, not too far away from the rest of the city, just removed enough for a sense of privacy. Long, green grass blew lightly in the wind, shining with a faint pollen-gold sheen as they waved. Below the crest of the hill was the forest, and beyond that, the city. White clouds drifted through a sky the same color as Aziraphale’s eyes. A formation of birds was flying away from them, and Crowley pointed to the flock. 

“Look. They’re leaving.”

Aziraphale tilted his head to follow them. “One summer. Strange to think that everything happened so quick.”

Crowley shrugged. “The Fall happened in a minute, the Rise in two. The really strange thing is going to be watching them all learn their own way. That’ll take years, maybe more.” 

Aziraphale said nothing, only squeezed Crowley’s hand a bit tighter. Then, a small sigh left him. “Do you think things will ever go back to normal?”

“Angel, there’s no way to go back.” Crowley miracled a checkered yellow blanket up with a snap of his fingers, setting it down on the ground below them. It would stay there if it knew what was good for it. “The only way is to keep moving forward.

They sat down on the blanket, together. Crowley unfolded his wings on instinct, and Aziraphale carded his hands through the feathers. It was impossible to hold back a shiver, that same feeling of euphoria that occurred every time Aziraphale put his hands on Crowley’s wings. Slowly, Aziraphale picked out the old, singed feathers, ones that slipped out easily with the molt, burnt patches filling in. Once, Aziraphale had even dared to put his lips against the base of Crowley’s wings, which only resulted in Crowley being able to think of nothing else for the remainder of the week. 

This was different, though. Peaceful, but with a sense of purpose that they were slowly hurtling towards. Crowley didn’t want to bring it up now, but he would have to soon. Instead, he just let his eyes slide closed as Aziraphale worked through the feathers. The wine bottle opened itself as he did so, and Crowley took a long sip, letting the flavor burst on his tongue. He passed it back to Aziraphale, who took it with a grateful nod and finished smoothing out Crowley’s wings.

“You look beautiful,” he said, leaning back to admire his work, drinking some of the wine as he did so. 

Crowley did not blush, because demons did not do that. He turned so that he and Aziraphale were sitting side by side. They drank together, in silence, and the pressure was back, like a fishing line steadily reeling in.

“Do you miss them?” The question left Crowley before he could stop it. “Your friends, I mean?”

“Do you?” Aziraphale looked out towards the horizon, where the Earth continued past the world they knew. Crowley decided that he also wanted to travel with Aziraphale one day.

“Yeah, guess I do. They’re happier now, though. Probably laughing at us from Up There.” 

“I like Earth.” Aziraphale leaned his head on Crowley’s shoulder as he passed the bottle back to him. “More free.”

Crowley cheated and snuck two sips instead of one. “Mhm. S’nice. Although there are...dangers.” He chuckled a bit. “Doesn’t matter. We’re safe now.” He wrapped an arm around Aziraphale for good measure, anchoring them together. They watched the clouds drift by. 

Aziraphale took a deep breath, the inhale filtering through his teeth. “Do you want to talk about it? What happened while you were in the cathedral.”

“No,” said Crowley, just a little too quickly. 

“Will you  _ ever  _ want to talk about it?” 

“Probably not, angel.” Crowley sighed, flapping his wings lazily just to feel the cool breeze. Although some feathers were still missing and they were still sore in some places, the bruises on his body had healed. But that didn’t mean he had forgotten the cold burn of the chapel and Gabriel’s cruel smile. He tried not to think about it too much, but the memory slithered into his dreams, twisting them into nightmares. While Aziraphale didn’t sleep—scared off by his first and last experience—he was still more than happy to comfort Crowley. 

Aziraphale nodded. “That’s alright. I’ll be here, if you do.”

Together, they watched Crowley’s feathers blow away in the wind, carried off the cliff’s edge and into the expanse of nature below. They would be used for other birds to build their nests, maybe collected by children who mistook them for those of a raven. In any case, little pieces of Crowley would be scattered throughout the kingdom, fragments of his power shed and gained back. The thought was as terrifying as it was comforting, and when Aziraphale reached for Crowley’s hand, he took it. 

This was nice. Just being here, with Aziraphale, not a care in the world from either of them. But they had come here for a reason, and if it all ended badly, then at least they’d have tried. Crowley rose up from the blanket, pulling Aziraphale up with him. 

“Are you ready?” He tilted his head towards the sky. “If you’re not, we don’t have to push this. If you want to do it later, I mean. Not that I don’t want to, it’s just that I’m worried. Obviously you can take care of yourself but s—”

Aziraphale cut him off with a kiss, which not only silenced Crowley for the couple of seconds their lips were pressed together, but also afterwards. 

“Ngk,” said Crowley, intelligently.

Aziraphale smiled, all innocent and  _ tickety-boo _ . “Let’s do this, then, my dear.”

Crowley was supposed to go first, so that he could hold Aziraphale steady if needed. But even then, it had been so long since he’d last flown. His new feathers could feel every shift of the breeze, every little change in the air. Rustling nervously, he took a deep breath. If Aziraphale could get the courage to do this, so could Crowley. He flapped his wings once and jumped up so that his weight was no longer carried by the ground. A grin spreading across his face, Crowley let himself swirl through the air a couple of times, performing little acrobatic tricks before coming back down for Aziraphale. 

“Your turn, angel.” He held his hands out expectantly. “Be brave with me.”

Aziraphale hesitated. For a second, Crowley thought he would back away, refuse his first flight. But instead, he just looked at Crowley, steely resolve lighting up his eyes better than any halo. 

Crowley watched in perfect awe, as his angel stepped forward his wings unfurling slowly but surely, with a creak of bone. He stepped off the ground, ever-so gently, with all the certainty of a baby taking their first steps. The entire world held its breath as Aziraphale’s feathers began to flap through the air, each wingbeat taking enough effort to build and raze cities. Aziraphale leaped higher into the air, and then he was flying. A cry of joy escaped him as he spun around in wonder, bones scraping together in a sound of protest. When his eyes locked with Crowley’s, they brimmed with tears. 

Aziraphale must’ve seen the look of concern on Crowley’s face, because he wiped the tears away with the back of his hand. “Don’t worry, they’re happy.” He laughed, the sound brilliant and ecstatic, like the first beam of morning light. “I love you, my dear, more than anything.” 

Crowley reached out, and Aziraphale took his hands. They steadied each other as they ascended higher. “I love you, angel.” 

Together, they soared up towards the clouds, through the sky, towards infinite possibilities laid out in a landscape of blue. They laughed, and then one of them was thrown forward just a bit, just enough for their lips to brush together. And then neither of them were laughing because they were kissing, with all the desperate wonder and passion of the world they inhabited. Their wingbeats were synchronized as surely as their hearts as they claimed the open air, flying together, as one, for the first time. 

Crowley could feel it now, everywhere.

In every breath, every touch, it overflowed. It carried through the breeze and shone in the sky. It was how the world turned, how people, mortal and immortal alike, survived and grew. It was Light and Dark and Good and Evil and everything in between. It was Heaven and Hell and the wonders of Humanity all put together. It was the way Crowley held Aziraphale, shrouding him from the world with his wings. It was their love, and the love of everyone else around them. 

_ This was hope.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is the end.  
> Let me just say, I'm honored that I had the opportunity to share this fic, and although I've had moments where the lack of response got me down, I still can't believe that I finished a multichapter and that people have READ IT. That's insane to me. I also can't believe this is it! The Epilogue!!  
> I don't know if y'all have been noticing, but the chapter names are Latin! Any guesses what they mean?  
> This is the time to comment, because I really REALLY want to know what you thought of this chapter and the fic as a whole.  
> Thank you so much for reading <3 <3 <3 I'll miss you all

**Author's Note:**

> My writing is completely fueled by validation and comments, so please tell me what you thought! Seriously, leave a comment, I appreciate it.  
> Thank you so much for reading, and until next time <3


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